


The Colours of Sunflowers

by PurplePatchwork



Series: Sunflowers [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff and Humor, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:37:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 34,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurplePatchwork/pseuds/PurplePatchwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots following on the events of The Promise of Sunflowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Light My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Russia decides to give his America a rather unorthodox present on Valentine's Day.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, dorogoy moy!”

“Oh thanks big gu- OH MY GOD!”

Bright blue spheres widened in pure horror as they stared at the display in front of them. The tall nation had his violet eyes closed and sported a childishly happy smile on his round – and very cute – face. His snowy ashen blond bangs fell neatly to the side, his chin was tucked nicely into his ever-present scarf, his grey trench coat was hanging open, boots a bit muddy perhaps, and his arms were stretched in front of him.

And in those gloved palms lay a heart. A real, beating, bloody heart.

America could only blink as he continued to stare dumbly at this puzzling development.

He had invited the tall nation over for the weekend to his house in Boston, Massachusetts. Hence the Russian being here. Nothing wrong with that. It was also Valentine’s Day, America had to give him that.

BUT WHY THE HELL WAS RUSSIA HOLDING A HEART IN HIS HANDS?

His own heart for that matter; America could now see the gaping hole in his uncovered chest.

The sunny blond carefully set down his bag of take-away Chinese food and folded his arms behind his back, trying to put on a professional attitude.

“Ivan. Can I ask you a question?”

Russia opened his eyes, curiously tilting his head to the side.

“Of course sunflower! What is it?”

America blushed only a little at being called a sunflower (he was still getting used to the abundant amount of nicknames the Russian thought up for him). Afterwards he cleared his throat and made a tiny nod of the head at the organ.

“Why exactly do you want to give me- You know, give me your heart?”

Russia’s smile widened.

“But is that not what everyone does? Give your heart to a loved one? I am most certain I have heard that plenty of times. Or was it steal your heart? I do not know if I would like anyone stealing my heart, but I suppose if it were you…”

“Wait, wait, wait. You know that’s just a saying right?”

Russia’s eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. His arms dropped a bit, holding the heart closer to his chest now.

“Do you mean you do not want it?”

America immediately shot forward and laid a hand on his lover’s shoulder.

“No no no, that’s not what I’m saying at all! It’s just that, when they say ‘give your heart to someone’, they don’t mean it literal! That’s all!”

Russia ducked his face into his scarf, only his oversized nose peeking over it.

“So you are rejecting it… Never mind, it was silly of me. I did not want to do something romantic for Valentine’s Day or anything…”

The younger nation groaned in exasperation. Russia could be surprisingly touchy-feely when it came to things like this. As if he was still uncertain America truly loved him.

“Don’t be that way dude, I’m only trying to explain here. Of course I want your heart, just not the real thing. Your metaphorical heart, or something like that. I mean, normal people wouldn’t even be able to pull that off! They’d die without a heart! So tell me Vanya, how could all those lovers give each other their heart without dying?”

Russia carefully rolled the organ around in his hands, sullenly staring at the ground.

“Maybe that is why Romeo and Juliet died so soon?”

America felt like face-palming, but also wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. He also was a lot less grossed out than he probably should be, but maybe being with Russia did such things to you.

“I’m pretty sure they died from poison and stabbing themselves with knives, if Iggy told me the right story.”

The Russian glanced back at him.

“Do you have any arsenic, perhaps?”

“NO! I don’t mean you should kill yourself for me, dear God no! I’m just saying that I don’t need your real heart, because I already have you metaphorical one!”

His mouth suddenly snapped shut and red coloured his ears when he realized he was being more than a little corny. Russia was smiling again, shyly lifting his face from its scarfy life-belt.

“You do? When did I give it to you?”

America swallowed, deciding that if he was going to be corny anyway, he might as well do it right. The nation planted a firm kiss on the tip of the other’s big nose, grinning cockily when those pale cheeks grew a light pink.

“When you realized you love me of course, you big doofus.”

Russia’s smile reached its maximum level as he bent over and captured America’s lips. It was a short but excellent kiss, as the Russian felt that familiar fluttering. Only, it was not inside his chest now, rather in his hands.

Russia broke the kiss all too soon to look down at his heart, which was beating noticeably faster now.

“So, if you do not want this heart, what should I do with it?”

“Put it back of course!” America yelled, eyebrows shooting up.

Russia giggled at the astonished look on his face.

“I suppose so. I do not think staying out like that is very good for it, it feels weird.”

“Weird?” America asked after recovering from his momentary shock.

Russia nodded. “Da. Tingly. And… Weird.”

“Put it back then! We don’t want to damage your heart!”

Russia smiled at him.

“But that is impossible, da? Since I already gave it to you!”

He chuckled light-heartedly when America sputtered incomprehensibly.

“Will you take good care of it?” he asked, suddenly growing serious.

America’s mouth flapped open and close, very much resembling a fish’s, before he regained his composure.

The smaller nation had a sudden moment of clarity. He boldly leant forward an placed a feathery kiss on top of the vital organ. Russia immediately grew silent, the heart speeding up even more. America grinned up at him, quite satisfied to see those amethysts staring at him, dumbfounded and amazed.

The blond placed both hands over Russia’s larger ones, folding their combined fingers over his heart. He then guided them towards the hole in Russia’s chest, carefully pushing the heart back into its house. Russia remained completely quiet, feeling wonder and awe wash over him at the loving actions. America didn’t seem to be the least bit spooked at having kissed a beating heart.

“There you go big guy,” America said once the hole closed on its own accord. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Russia was still frozen on the spot. America flashed a big toothpaste commercial grin, bringing a hand to the other’s face to brush away some astray platinum locks.

“I know it’s your heart I’ve just given you, but you got mine too, right? The metaphorical one.”

Russia blushed harder than he ever had before, placing a hand over the one resting on his cheek and holding it there.

“Spasiba, Alfred.”

Another kiss was placed on his thin lips.

“Happy Valentine’s, Vanya.”


	2. Mon petit nuage de pluie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France visits England and gets served a soufflé. But if it is made with love, how can he resist?

France whistled as he skidded along the pavement. He winked at a pretty girl, but didn’t stop to flirt with her. Flirting was a big no-no now that he was finally in a real relationship with his stubborn Englishman.

Ah, Angleterre~

Ever since that day when England came to him, he felt like living on Cloud Nine. The food tasted better, he could at long last enjoy his wine again, he even began preferring the rain over the sun. Thoughts of his loved-one helped him through meetings and his paperwork, and the sex was in a word: divine.

True, England hadn’t confessed his love yet. But France could wait. They were in a relationship now, so no one would steal the Brit away from him while he took the time figuring out his feelings. France was absolutely certain a confession was bound to come someday. England wouldn’t stay with him if he didn’t love him.

A strange smell suddenly pulled him out of his daydreams. France glanced around, finding himself almost at England’s house. And for some reason, there were thick, black clouds of smoke pouring out of the windows.

France’s heart skipped a beat and he immediately began running. He frantically fiddled with the lock on the front door and burst through the hallway as soon as it opened.

“Angleterre! Arthur, mon amour, are you all ri-”

France stopped dead in his tracks when he reached his destination.

His lover was standing in the centre of the kitchen, face black with ash and clothes filthy, hair peeking into every single direction, eyebrows scrunched together in concentration, and he was stirring madly in a bowl of- of…

What on earth was that?!

“Arthur? What are you doing?”

England looked up at the mention of his name, seemingly surprised to see someone standing there.

“Oh sorry, didn’t hear you come in.” He then proudly held the bowl up to France. “I wanted to make us some dinner. But not because I knew you were coming or something! No, I just felt like cooking today.”

France blinked and peered at the bowl. There was some sort of brownish sludge in there, that looked like it was about to turn to stone.

“Um… Mind me asking what exactly you are trying to make?”

England huffed and stirred some more, having difficulty in dragging his wooden spoon through the inedible mess.

“Can’t you tell? I’m making dough for a soufflé!”

France had wanted to say something to tease the Brit about his horrific cooking skills, but all possible insults died on his tongue after those words.

Despite how horrible it looked, France was touched. Because his boyfriend was trying to cook something from his cuisine. It was one of the cutest things England had ever done for him. Therefore, he simply couldn’t joke around.

France grinned widely, happy to see that adorable combination of a blush and a scowl on the other’s face.

“Ah, mon lapin. If it is soufflé you are making, then why not let me help?”

Both blush and frown deepened.

“I can do it myself, thank you. I’m the one making dinner tonight. Now shoo, out of the kitchen with you. Go make yourself useful and open up a bottle of wine or something.”

The blue-eyed nation wanted to protest, but didn’t want to hurt England’s feelings either. So he simply surrendered and went back to the living room. Surely one night of eating England’s food wouldn’t kill him, right?

Right?

* * *

France was trying really hard not to run away whilst screaming like a little girl.

His sense of smell had died a little while ago, and his sight was destined to follow if he kept looking at that abomination lying on a plate in front of him. This was exactly the reason why France always made dinner whenever he dropped by.

England was staring him down, mentally demanding him to take the first bite. His own soufflé was already halfway finished, him being used to burnt and tasteless food (well duh, he made it).

“Well? Aren’t you going to have a taste?” the Brit asked. His voice wavered a little at the end, as if suddenly unsure of his own cooking talents (not that he had any).

France forced a smile upon his face and bravely took hold of his fork.

“I must say that I am not that hungry tonight, so I probably won’t finish it.”

England nodded, but still kept staring intensely.

“That’s all right. But you can at least have a taste right? I would like to know if it’s good.”

France swallowed heavily and looked back at the so-called ‘soufflé.’ It really did resemble a rock now.

_‘Here goes nothing…’_

The fork went down (not without difficulty), and he successfully cut off a tiny piece. Without giving himself the time to have second thoughts, the fork disappeared into his mouth. He only took two seconds to chew, before swallowing.

That was officially the grossest thing he had ever eaten.

“Well?” England asked.

He had the most hopeful look France had ever seen on his face. So, despite having his taste buds screaming in agony, the nation smiled and nodded.

“Yes, quite good mon coeur! It is indeed a ‘successful’ soufflé!”

England lit up for the briefest of moments, very much resembling a puppy with the way his smile grew and eyes brightened, before turning back to his usual self.

“Of course it’s a successful soufflé. What were you expecting? For me to poison you?”

“Hahaha… Of course not,” France laughed, gulping and looking guiltily to the side.

The rest of the meal was spent with him dumping bits of soufflé in the fish bowl, vowing to himself he would buy his beloved a new goldfish after this.

“Would you like some dessert? I still have a couple of scones,” England said while putting their plates away, satisfied to see France’s almost completely empty.

The blue-eyed nation purred suggestively at his words.

“Ah, mon Angleterre, I would love some dessert. But instead of scones, how about you undress and I get some whipped cream and strawberries?”

England instantly flushed red and almost dropped the plates.

“What are you saying, you dirty frog!” he growled, green eyes flashing dangerously and cheeks a nice crimson red.

The Frenchman snuck up to him and laid an arm around his waist, reeling him in.

“Is that not why you always invite me for the weekend, you naughty boy?”

He ignored the Brit’s incomprehensible spluttering and pulled him in for a passionate kiss. England struggled at first, but soon enough he felt the other melting into the kiss. After a few moments of heated making-out he broke away to smirk against the other’s lips.

“Now shall I go get the whipped cream?”

As soon as England caught his breath, he smirked too.

“You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

* * *

France cautiously pushed against the door, flinching when it creaked a little. He glanced inside the room, relieved to find England fast asleep. He shut the door behind him and tip-toed over to the bed.

This certainly wasn’t the first time France had been banned to the couch for the night. But is also wasn’t the first time he simply ignored such banishment and snuck into England’s bedroom afterwards. England could get quite cranky about that, but France had his ways to convince the Englishman to let him sleep in his bed. True, England would be even more pissed in the mornings after such events, but for France, it was all worth it.

The perverted nation curled his fingers and was ready to pounce his lover, ready for some thorough punishment. However, a sudden movement made him pause.

England rolled around in his bed so that he now faced France, the mattress creaking under the shifting weight. His hand roamed about the empty space next to him, and a light frown adorned his sleeping features.

“Francis…” came his muttered voice, body shifting restlessly.

France’s heart made a pang. He lost his predatory stance and quickly closed the distance between his figure and the bed. The Frenchman gently pried the blankets from the other’s clinging fingers and lay down next to him, instantly pulling the blond close to his chest.

England shifted a bit more in his slumber, the searching hand finding its way to France’s stomach and resting there, seemingly comforted by the feeling of touch. The nation mumbled a bit more, breathed out a content sigh, and grew peaceful once again. The frown left his face and he nuzzled against France’s torso.

The Frenchman smiled as he caressed England’s messy locks. No sneak-attacks tonight. His Angleterre needed gentleness and love this evening, things France was more than willing to share with him.

“Mon Angleterre. Je te souhaite des rêves beaux et joyeux. Je t’adore, mon trésor. Je t’aime. Je veux que tu sois heureux avec moi, mais je ne veux pas te forcer. Tu es mon cœur, ma seule raison d’être. J’espère qu’un jour, tu te sentiras le même. Bonne nuit, mon ange.”

And with that he pressed a loving kiss to his lover’s scalp, after which he went to sleep himself.

Little did he know that England had heard every single thing he just said, and that he understood it all perfectly (England had always understood French, he just didn’t feel like letting anyone know).

And perhaps, maybe, he felt the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words:  
> Mon petit nuage de pluie: My little cloud of rain  
> Angleterre: England  
> Mon amour: My love  
> Mon lapin: My bunny  
> Mon coeur: My heart
> 
> Mon Angleterre. Je te souhaite des rêves beaux et joyeux. Je t’adore, mon trésor. Je t’aime. Je veux que tu sois heureux avec moi, mais je ne veux pas te forcer. Tu es mon cœur, ma seule raison d’être. J’espère qu’un jour, tu te sentiras le même. Bonne nuit, mon ange.
> 
> Translation:  
> My England. I wish you beautiful and happy dreams. I adore you, my treasure. I love you. I want you to be happy with me, but I don’t want to force you. You are my heart, my only reason of living. I hope that one day, you will feel the same. Goodnight, my angel.


	3. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America observes his lover lying in the sun and thinks about their past encounters.

His body truly looked beautiful in the sunlight.

With a snowy background, he was like a creature of ice. A spirit of winter. With his pale skin and snowy bangs, his violet spheres shining in the eye of his personal little snowstorm. Scarf flying up in the wind, boots leaving deep footprints. That was Russia.

But in the sun he was so much more. His platinum locks suddenly turned golden, illuminating the blond and setting the silver alight. His skin warmed up, a healthy blush colouring his face. The gloves taken off from his fine fingers, scarf no longer ominous but delicately concealing his neck. Those long eyelashes fluttering over his cheeks, dark grey at the base, but pure white at the tips. A faint pink at the very top of his nose, making it irresistibly kissable.

America loved watching his boyfriend whilst bathing in the sun. Especially when said boyfriend was taking a nap, so he couldn’t notice his incessant staring.

America re-adjusted Texas on the bridge of his nose and crawled closer. His loved-one had fallen asleep in the meadow they were visiting, lying comfortably between bright green grass and scattered daisies. A book was lying on his torso, chest slowly rising and falling with his lazy breaths. His hair was a bit messy.

America carefully reached out to tuck those bangs behind his ears. Russia didn’t move. The sunny blond boldly crept closer so that he could touch the other.

An index finger slid up from his ear, following the line of his eyebrow and down his nose. A feathery touch along his cheekbone, and back down to his lips. Thin lips, yet surprisingly soft and warm.

The nation took one hand in his own and followed the blue veins on his wrist, dipped down at his palm, and patted the soft cushions beneath his fingers. The digits were a little rough due to all the manual labour he had done, but were slender due to his being big-boned. Russia really was big-boned; for him it wasn’t just some excuse to hide that he had gained a little weight over the years. America would know, being his lover.

He gently played with the little platinum hairs on his arm, quickly stopping when the sleeping nation twitched. America’s eyes shot to the other’s face, but he was still fast asleep.

He cautiously unbuttoned the shirt, glancing up to make sure Russia was still asleep. Not that he would be embarrassed or anything, he just wanted to take his time.

A pale yet sturdy chest was revealed. His thumb caressed an old scar cutting straight through the skin over his heart. He then followed the contours of his ribs, showing slightly on his lying figure. A few more cuts and bruises, a rather fresh scar that resembled the fall of the USSR.

America knew that one all too well. He had been there when it happened, ready to proclaim himself the victor over communism. Only, when seeing Russia in such pain and agony, all gloating immediately died on his tongue. Maybe that was the first time America had felt sorry for him since the start of the Cold War. The first step to restoring the companionship they had before that(1). Only, it had grown into so much more when they finally did get to it.

America never truly hated Russia. Other feelings, yes. Like annoyance, suspicion, confusion about his true motifs, some basic paranoia, a playful antagonism. But America wasn’t the type to hate someone with all his might, especially someone he looked up to. True, where there were heroes, there were bound to be villains. That didn’t mean America wanted to create new villains. No, he was much more set on gaining friends.

The blond could vividly recall every single time he had met the Russian.

Like that first time, back when he was still a colony. It had only been a very brief meeting, a simple “hello” and “goodbye,” the Russian wanting to meet this country that was said to be living in the New World.

America’s childish eyes thought the Russian to be a giant back then. With that enormous body that just kept going on and on, without any sign of stopping soon. Those violet eyes had instantly intrigued him. They looked so unreal, like one of the mythical beings England kept telling him about.

“Are you an angel?” little America had asked.

And the giant blushed, a faint pink dusting his pale cheeks, a light smile showing from beneath his scarf.

“Nyet, little one. I am simply Mother Russia.”

After that he left, curiosity momentarily satisfied.

The second meeting could count as their first real meeting, as they really got to talk for a bit then. America had grown a lot since the first meeting, but Russia still resembled a giant.

He had been fighting for independence from England back then, and was more than a little worn-out by the war. Still, when that strange country came visiting again, he straightened his back and proudly held his head up high, standing between his men like a proud soldier. Russia had walked straight up to him, as if recognizing the child for who he had grown up to be.

“Amerika. It is good to see you again, da?” the tall nation then said, dropping a heavy hand on top of his head.

America didn’t move a muscle, knowing it would be weak to back away. Despite his constant exhaustion, he had to show strength now. The Russians were aiding him in this war, so he couldn’t show disrespect by cowering away.

Russia had smiled that creepy little smile that America later came to know as his trademark (and much later as the fake smile, the one he used as an automatic shield).

“Very good, little one. You are different from the others, da? A fighter, I think they call it. But can you fight long enough to survive?”

And America had puffed out his chest, eyes flashing fierce electricity.

“Yes, I can. I’ll show you. I’ll show them all.”

A low chuckle, while those eyes intensely studied his figure.

“Very well then. We shall see what the future has in store for you, little Amerika.”

And America kept his word. He did show Russia what he was made of. And it was only after gaining independence that the Russian began treating him as an equal. Not friends, not family, not lovers, but something else. While everyone else was too afraid of the Russian to come near him, America was still intrigued. He wanted to know more about this strange man, with his odd behaviour and creepy exterior. And he began respecting what he found.

He didn’t always trust the Russian, knowing he could be unpredictable at times. But he certainly wasn’t afraid of him. Not when he could already lift buffaloes as a child.

Perhaps the only reason that America hadn’t fallen for him sooner, was because Russia always had this invisible wall around him. Wanting to make friends, but unwilling to show his true emotions. Too broken to make himself vulnerable, too believing of what everyone thought of him. Thinking he really was a monster, thinking no one could ever understand his pain, or that they would laugh at him and mock him if they knew. Afraid to show his real self, hiding behind violence and a smile.

But then Russia came to him, finally requesting to be friends. Finally allowing a peek over that barrier. And what America saw there had made him fall head over heels.

There was so much love in that big heart of his. So much tenderness.

And now he had it all for himself.

A soft hum reached his ears. America looked up and saw those (beautiful) amethysts flutter open. They almost instinctively shot to him, seeking his bright blue eyes in the sea of green. Those thin lips sliding up into a smile, a real one, one that made America’s heart dance at a funny rhythm.

“Izvinite, Fedya. Did I fall asleep?”

He slowly stretched his muscles, yawning like a cat. America couldn’t help himself when he slid forward and sprawled his body over the other’s chest, nuzzling against his shoulder and possessively sliding his hands under the other’s armpits and over his shoulders.

“…Fedya? Why is my shirt open?”

America grinned lazily, before pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

“Mine,” he sighed.

Another kiss on his sternum.

“Mine.”

A kiss on his heart. Then he looked up, feeling warm and dazy, as if intoxicated by the sun.

“Mine.”

His hand roamed the unclothed chest, savouring the feel of it. Not in a sexual way, simply a desire to be close to him.

Big hands held his body closer, the Russian trying to sit up and pull the other into his lap. But America gently pushed him back down, before moving up to his face.

A kiss on his earlobe. One on his jawline. Another in the dip next to his nose. Two kisses on each eyelid.

“Mine.”

The air buzzed hotly with the warm summer sun filling it, filling him as he laid there on top of the other, simply enjoying the sight and feel of his lover. He felt so at ease right now, so completely content and happy and satisfied. He wanted this moment to last forever.

Russia hummed softly as silvery hair was once again brushed out of his eyes.

“To what do I deserve this treatment, solnyshka?”

“Shhhhhh. Don’t say anything.”

Fingers left light trails over skin, much like a summer’s breeze in a hidden valley. America carefully unwound the scarf, once again hushing the other when he tried to make objections. He folded it neatly and put it aside, showing his lover he did care. He then rested his lips on the other’s Adam’s Apple, leaving an almost non-existing kiss.

America closed his eyes and simply stayed in that position, lips slightly parted in contact with raw, broken flesh. He might as well turn to stone, so peaceful he felt. So protected by the warmth of a body considered cold and untouchable. Nurturing the slight bobbing of that little bulge when Russia swallowed, letting his fingers slide through that soft snowy hair, intertwining their bodies in the most intimate way. Russia’s hands were on his back, neither reeling him in or pushing him away. Simply there, a constant presence. Like Russia had been a constant presence in the majority of his life, someone he knew would always be there, whether it be as a friend, an ally, an enemy, or now, a lover.

The world was at peace in that moment. In that meadow, there in the grass among the daisies.

And everything was how it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Before the Cold War, Russia and America were on quite friendly terms with each other. Not exactly friends, but something in that direction. Companions, or sharers of mutual respect.  
> Some examples:  
> \- Russia aided America in the Civil War through trade and diplomacy. They were technically neutral, but Russia didn’t really get along with the British Empire at that point, so they favoured the colonists.  
> \- Russia was the only European country openly supporting the Union. Others (like France and England) chose to remain officially neutral.
> 
> Words:  
> Ivinite: Sorry  
> Solnyshka: Sunshine


	4. What haunts me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Russia wakes up from a nightmare and talks about his worries for the future.

“Vanya.”

“Nyet… Stoj…”

“Vanya. Wake up.”

“Ostav' menja v pokoe…”

“Vanya!”

Russia shot up, eyes wide and panicky. His breath was coming out in pants, sweat sticking his bangs to his forehead and temples.

“Chto?” he asked no one in particular while looking around frantically, completely disorientated.

“Vanya, calm down!”

A hand was placed over his chest. Russia jerked, twisting around to beat up his offender.

Someone was attacking him, someone was-!

The Russian froze once he laid his eyes upon the other. Sunny wheat-coloured locks with a funny cowlick sprouting from the top of his head. A Captain America t-shirt hardly concealing well-trained muscles and only the tiniest bit of cute pudge. Beautiful, ever-energetic eyes, that weren’t exactly the colour of the sea, but also not quite the colour of the sky.

America. His lovely, stunning, sweet America. No one was attacking him in their shared bedroom.

As soon as his mind had established this fact, the tension in his arms and shoulders slipped away. The fear in his eyes died, scorching amethyst becoming light violet once more. With a shaky sigh he let himself fall back onto the mattress.

“You okay there big guy?” America asked cautiously, patting the other on his tummy.

“Da… Prosti,” he said, still a little out of breath.

America lay down next to him. He cupped the other’s face, forcing him to look him in the eye. Russia didn’t want to see the concern written on his lover’s face. He hated worrying his little sunflower.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The older nation hummed, neither accepting nor disregarding the offer. America curled up next to him, one hand resting over Russia’s heart, the other playing with his snowy ashen blond hair.

“Come on, Vanya. Talking helps. Mattie always told me that, and he’s usually right in these things. I promise.”

Russia snorted. “You promise?”

The sunny blond nodded excitedly.

“Cross my heart and hope to die!”

Russia giggled as he pulled the other closer, nuzzling in his hair. America bent over and placed a peck on the place where his heart was calming down inside its house. At the loving action, a warm glow filled the Russian’s entire being.

He sighed.

“I was dreaming about the past.”

“Yeah, I figured that much out myself. Which part?”

The tall nation waited with his answer to caress his boyfriend’s cheek. Those electric blues looked up at him, gaze fierce even in the dark.

“I was dreaming about my past leaders. Stalin, Lenin, Gorbachev, Peter, Ivan, Catherine…”

Although an involuntary shudder went through the nation’s body, America knew the real reason for his distress was yet to come.

“Dmitry, Alexander, Yuri… All of them.”

When he paused for a moment, America placed another kiss on his chest. Russia smiled absentmindedly.

“…And then there was my time under the Mongol Yoke.”

Ah, there it was. Mongolia. Or the Golden Horde, or whatever Russia wanted to call his past tormentor. America had heard stories about that time, a time of suffering and fear and pain and war. Some of the scars on the tall nation’s back and chest came from that time, never to recover despite them being nations. As if to remind him of that time, rubbing it into his face whenever the Slavic nation undressed. And occasionally turning his dreams into nightmares, like tonight.

“I wish I could’ve been there to protect you,” America mumbled softly.

Russia chuckled and squeezed his shoulder.

“Impossible, little one. I was only a child back then. And you? You probably weren’t even born yet.”

America huffed. “Yeah? Okay, then how about this. I’ll just build a time machine, go back in time, and beat some Mongolian ass!”

Russia’s laughter intensified, silent rumbles travelling over his body. America could feel them, his cheek pressed to the other’s torso.

“As much as I appreciate the gesture, dorogoy moy, I would prefer you did not do that.”

“Why nooooooooooooooooot?” America whined.

“Because it is part of history. And history is what makes us who we are now, da? Even if it is sad some times. Who knows? Maybe if I had not met Mongolia back then, I would not be together with you now.”

“What?!” America shouted indignantly, lifting his face to glare hotly at the other. “No way!”

Russia smiled, a knowing mien in his eyes.

“It could have been that way, if our history was to be altered. Or maybe we would still be at war with each other?”

“Never!” America growled, stubbornly curling in on himself. “How could I be at war with my boyfriend? That’s just stupid!”

Russia suddenly grew serious.

“Oh, little one. You are so young. Who knows? We might be at war again in the future.”

“Don’t say that jerk!” the blond hissed, pulling the covers over him for protection from those unwanted words.

Russia absentmindedly kept stroking his lover’s back, gazing up at the ceiling.

“If our bosses say we have to go to war, then we must. Even if we do not want to, it is our duty as a country to think about our people before ourselves. Even if it means we do not agree. That is our curse, Fedya.”

Blue eyes peeked from under the covers.

“Why are you being all down? You’re not thinking about going to war, are you?”

Russia shook his head.

“Nyet. I am merely saying it is a possibility.”

America crawled back up, lying on his back to look at the ceiling as well.

“I won’t let it happen. I won’t let some stupid war destroy our relationship. Your my leading lady, not the villain.”

Russia pinched his cheek for being called a lady, but remained solemn.

“Let us hope we will be strong enough to do that.”

America grinned widely.

“Of course we will! I’m the hero after all, nothing’s impossible for me!”

Russia smiled once more, rolling onto his side to gaze at the other.

“Maybe you are right little one. Maybe we will be able to do it.”

America rolled over as well, so that they were now facing each other.

“Of course I’m right! I’m always right, dude! You should know that by now.”

Russia captured his hand and brought it to his lips, placing a light kiss on the knuckles.

“Ty menya udivlyat', zvezda moya,” he murmured.

America blinked sheepishly.

“What’da ya say?”

Russia smiled.

“Nothing, lapushka. Simply that I love you.”

America grinned. He inched closer and laid his head against the Russian’s torso, one arm draped around his waist.

“Think you can go back to sleep now?”

Russia hummed softly, possessively (but lovingly) pulling the other closer.

“No more nightmares? No more doom-thinking?”

“Nyet, little one.”

America yawned and sighed.

“G’night.”

“Spokojnoj noči.”

America almost instantly fell asleep while Russia caressed his golden locks.

As much as the tall nation would love to forget the ghosts that plagued him, he knew the gods often had other plans in store for their kind.

But as he felt that warm body lying beside him and heard that content snoring, he knew those were worries for the future. He should try focussing on the present for a change.

Now, everything was good.

Now, they were happy.

Now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words:  
> Stoj: Stop  
> Ostav' menja v pokoe: Leave me alone  
> Chto?: What?  
> Vy menya udivlyat': You amaze me  
> Zvezda moya: My star  
> Lapushka: Darling  
> Spokojnoj noči: Goodnight


	5. Toy Soldiers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Russia discovers America's storage room, and America doesn't deal well with the memories it reignites.

There was one room in America’s house in Washington D.C. that Russia wasn’t allowed to go into. Some sort of storage room, he had called it. None of Russia’s business.

Naturally, when America went out to go shopping for groceries, that was exactly the room Russia ran to.

He hadn’t meant to stay there all that long. Just a quick peek and then back to the living room before his lover could come back. Yet what he found there was far too fascinating to leave alone.

America’s previous flags. A bayonet with a scratch in it. A very dusty tuxedo. His old war uniforms. An actual copy of the Declaration of Independence. What seemed to be a collection of car miniatures.

The Russian was so lost in his activities that he didn’t hear the front door open.

“Ivan? Are you there?”

Russia started and quickly shut the box he had been browsing through. He looked at the small object in his hand and was about to put it back when-

“What the fuck Ivan!”

The tall nation snapped his neck back so fast it would have given any normal human a whiplash. America was standing in the doorway, looking all kinds of furious.

Shit, he had forgotten to close the door behind him. He really was losing his touch as a spy.

“Get the hell out of here!”

Russia quickly scrambled to his feet, momentarily forgetting he was still holding onto something. This was the maddest he had seen the American since that one time someone burnt down a McDonald’s…

The other’s blue eyes fell upon his hand, and his frown increased.

“And what are you holding?! Give me that!”

America’s arm shot forward so fast it made Russia’s fist tighten in reflex. When the smaller nation’s fingers closed around his hand with such force it could easily tear through stone walls, they heard a sickening cracking noise along with an eerie snap.

Russia’s next breath-intake was shocked and shaky as he tried not to panic. Luckily, this wasn’t the first time America had accidentally broken his bones, so he was already getting used to it. Yet, for some reason, the pain didn’t come. Then he remembered what he had been holding.

What he wasn’t used to, was the look on the other’s face when his fingers opened and revealed their hidden treasure.

It was a tiny wooden toy soldier. There were so many details that it had to be hand-made, with its red coat and black hat and almost meaningful expression.

The small soldier was broken in half.

For a moment, America’s expression turned so dark the ashen blond was absolutely certain he was going to beat him to a pulp.

Then it changed. Remorse and an almost painful sadness slipped into his features, made his glare plummet to the ground and his lips tremble.

Before Russia could stop him, America spun on his heels and all but ran out of the storage room.

How Russia wished America would have just hit him.

* * *

“Fedya? Can I come in?”

When no response came, Russia softly pushed against the door and peeked inside the bedroom.

America was sitting in the middle of his bed, knees pulled to his chest, shoulders hunched and arms enveloping his legs as if hugging someone. His face was hidden from curious onlookers, and his entire figure read tense vulnerability.

Russia tip-toed over to the bed and set aside his peace-offering (a chocolate milkshake with bits of twix in it). He carefully sat down on the mattress, heart skipping a beat when America flinched further into himself at the movement.

“Fedya, I am so sorry. I should have listened to you. I was just curious, da? But I should not have snuck in behind your back. Can you forgive me?”

No reaction. America simply stayed in that position, completely curled in on himself. Russia inched closer to him, regret oozing from his very existence.

“Are you very mad?”

A short jerking up of the shoulders that could have been translated into a shrug. But Russia knew something more was up. If America was just mad at him, he would be cranky and stomping through the house and ignoring him in an overly dramatic manner. Not… this.

“I am also sorry I broke your wooden figure.”

“Go away Vanya…” came a soft, broken, trembling voice, much too hesitant to be America’s.

In a sudden moment of clarity, the Russian reached out and lifted the other’s face. What he saw shocked him just as much as America’s sudden entrance earlier that day.

Those beautiful blue eyes were wet and far too big, making him resemble a lost child. Angry red dots tainted his cheeks, as if he had been digging his nails into them. His lower lip was cut and chewed-on.

Russia instantly pulled the other close, feeling the all-overpowering need to comfort his lover well up. America tensed even more, but Russia simply held him tighter and rubbed his back.

“Please Fedya, do not be mad at me. I am sorry da?”

“Am not mad…” came that tiny voice.

As he spoke, a heavy tremble travelled through his body, and he almost choked on the ending of his sentence. Russia now understood that the other was trying to hold back his tears, as if embarrassed they were even there.

“You can cry if you want to. There is nothing to be ashamed of. We are at your home, and nobody can see you.”

“But I’m not crying!” he peeped, swallowing back another sob. “I-it’s silly, really. N-nothing to c-cry about. And I w-won’t.”

As he spoke, the trembles increased in both quantity and intensity. The sunny blond choked back a strangled gasp and buried his face in Russia’s coat, hiding from the tears that weren’t coming.

“Why are you sad? Are you not mad at me?”

“I’m not sad!” America suddenly yelled, pushing the other away from him. His eyebrows were scrunched together in a vain attempt to keep the tears from spilling.

“I shouldn’t be sad! It’s just a freakin’ toy soldier! I shouldn’t even have it anymore! The fuck do I care it came from back when… back when…”

He hid his face in his hands when a loud bawl final escaped.

“This is e-exactly why I d-didn’t want you to go in there… I-it’s just painful memories…”

Russia once more placed an arm around the shivering nation and pulled him close. America let him, shoulders slacking and pained sobs falling out of his mouth. Russia gently rocked him, stroking his hair and letting the words slip from his lips.

 _Spi mladyenets, moi prekrasný,_  
_bayushki bayu,_  
 _tikho smotrit myesyats yasný_  
 _f kolýbyel tvayu._  
 _Stanu skazývat' ya skazki,_  
 _pyesenki spayu,_  
 _tý-zh dremli, zakrývshi glazki,_  
 _bayushki bayu._

Gradually the restrained crying eased down into a soft hiccupping. Russia had no idea what would have gotten his lover this upset, but he knew better than to find him pathetic. He had more than enough experience with emotional breakdowns himself.

“Feel better?”

America nodded, letting out a shaky sigh.

“Can you tell me what it is you were upset about? Talking helps.”

America smiled sarcastically at his own words being used against him, but it looked too forced with his red, puffy eyes.

“It’s something stupid, really. I had no idea I would ever cry like a baby because of it.”

“Not stupid,” Russia murmured, placing a kiss on the other’s forehead. “If it were you would not be so upset.”

The smaller nation sighed heavily. He grabbed the two broken parts of his toy soldier and held them up to his face.

“You have your scarf to remind you of Ukraine, right?”

Russia blushed as his hand automatically shot up to touch his scarf, as if automatically having to remind himself that it was indeed still there.

“Well, I have other stuff. To remind me of… You know, of when I was younger.”

“Of your time as a colony, you mean?”

America frowned stubbornly at his use of words, but nodded nonetheless.

“Yeah. Back when me and Iggy… When me and Arthur, when we still were…”

Russia made a small sound of understanding. He gave the other’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze, waiting for him to continue.

“After the war, I really wanted to throw out all of this stuff. But I just couldn’t, you know? Every time I tried, I just kept seeing his face. How happy he looked when he gave those things to me. I’ve really never seen him smile as much as he did back then. And then when I wanted independence… It broke his heart. I could see it in his face, even though he didn’t want to show me. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I had to. We couldn’t go on like that any longer. I wasn’t meant to spend my entire life as a colony. But back then he was the British Empire, and he wasn’t used to disobedience. So we fought. And I won. And when I did… I felt terrible. Thrilled and overjoyed, but terrible. Because that was the first time it’d ever seen him so broken.”

America chewed his lip, pausing to take in a breath.

“I still cared about him, you know. I had to break away from him, and I was glad I did, but he was still my brother. Things got really awkward between us after that. I knew he was hurt, but I couldn’t comfort him. All I could think about was the future of my new country. I was a selfish bastard back then.”

Russia hummed in thought.

“We are nations, koshka. We have to place our people before our own needs.”

“I know. And that’s what I did. But we have human emotions for a reason.”

He sighed again.

“Arthur thinks I hated him all that time. I know he does. But he doesn’t know I kept all this stuff. Because I couldn’t throw it out, because every time I tried, I became an emotional wreck. Because his face kept popping up, and it hurt too much to think about him. I tried telling him once, that it wasn’t because I hated him that I wanted independence. He slammed the door in my face. It’s just too painful for him to talk about.”

He carefully rolled the figurine around in his hands.

“We’re friends now. But we’ll never be able to go back to what we had back then. We’ll never fully be brothers again. I wish I could tell him how much I regret that. But I would be lying. Because I don’t, not really. Yes, I regret hurting him. But I would never regret fighting. Because…”

He choked back another involuntary sob, eyes staring off into the distance. Russia cradled him in his arms, pressed a kiss to his ear.

“Will he ever be able to forgive me Ivan? Will I ever see him smile again, just the way he used to? Without holding back, without that fucking restraining he always does? Does he still hate me for what happened?”

“I am certain he does not, sunflower,” Russia spoke softly. “Even though he does not show it, I am certain part of him understands why you needed to do that. If he did not, he would not be on speaking terms with you now.”

“But he’ll never fully forgive me,” America whispered. “The Fourth of July will always be a time of suffering for him. That topic will always be awkward for us. A-and now, I broke his gift, and I should’ve thrown it out a long time ago, but I didn’t, and i-it’s ruined…”

Russia rocked him back and forth as he broke down a second time, cooing gentle words at him and stroking his hair. His chest constricted when he was reminded of the relationship between him and his sisters, of how things would never be as simple as they were in the past. Not that the past had ever been simple, but still…

That night, when America had finally fallen asleep, Russia slipped out of the bedroom to make a quick call. He looked at the faded face of the toy soldier while the phone went over.

“Ah, Angliya? I have a request to make.”

* * *

America couldn’t believe his eyes when he arrived at the World Conference. There, standing on the table in front of his seat, was the wooden soldier he knew had been broken in half. Only now, the crack was completely gone, and it looked good as new. Better even.

America quickly hid it in his pocket before anyone else could arrive (since the meeting was in his capital, he was there in time for a change). He then saw Russia waving at him from across the room, and immediately ran over to him and leapt into his arms.

“You fixed it! Thanks a bunch big guy, I owe you one!”

Russia looked over his lover’s shoulder as he listened to his excited banters. There, hidden in the shadows, was England. The green-eyed nation was smiling gently, almost shyly, as he saw how happy his ex-colony was.

Russia winked at him, and England frowned.

But the smile never left his face as he turned around and snuck back out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some talk about the painful parts in America’s past this time, since someone pointed out I gave Russia plenty of ‘breakdowns’ but not America. So here it is!  
> England doesn’t want America to know what he did, so that’s why he didn’t show himself. See it as him being a gentleman, a tsundere, or simply him being discrete or modest. He probably won’t talk about it afterwards either, but at least he knows the truth now, and that makes him happy.
> 
> [Spi mladyenets, moi prekrasný,  
> bayushki bayu,  
> tikho smotrit myesyats yasný  
> f kolýbyel tvayu.  
> Stanu skazývat' ya skazki,  
> pyesenki spayu,  
> tý-zh dremli, zakrývshi glazki,  
> bayushki bayu.]
> 
> A Russian lullaby that translates into:  
> [Sleep, my beautiful good boy,  
> Bayushki bayu,  
> Quietly the moon is looking  
> Into your cradle.  
> I will tell you fairy tales  
> And sing you little songs,  
> But you must slumber, with your little eyes closed,  
> Bayushki bayu.]  
> (Bayushki bayu is the Russian expression to lull children into sleep, spoken by a mother to her child.)


	6. You called?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America gets drunk, and England still hasn't perfected his demon summoning skills.

America knew it was stupid to challenge Russia to a drinking contest. He knew all too well how much the tall nation could take. Yet, when those violet eyes had turned to him with a mocking mien, those thin lips stuck on a condescending smirk, America couldn’t help but defend his pride and accept the challenge. The results were… well…

“Gosh darrrnit Wussia, your hai’s too sssssoft!”

Russia hummed in acknowledgment as the sunny blond let his fingers slide through those platinum locks. America had the goofiest expression possible on his face, with his grin so wide it showed all of his teeth and one eyelid drooping down due to his exhaustion.

America had spent the last ten minutes or so trying to go to the kitchen for more whiskey, but each time Russia had pushed him back down, insisting he’d had enough. By the end America didn’t even need Russia’s prohibition anymore, as his legs were trembling too hard to keep supporting his weight. Afterwards he’d sprawled the upper half of his body over the table, and began petting Russia’s head as if it were a puppy. Good thing the Russian had a high resistance to pain, as America’s movements were a bit rougher now that he didn’t keep them under his full control.

Russia was quite amused by the turn of events. America usually lived on sugar-filled shakes and sodas, which often resulted in the younger nation having a sudden sugar-rush. This was a nice change of pace.

“You are a happy drunk, da?” Russia questioned, capturing the hand on his head when it began gripping a bit too tightly at his hair.

America let out an obnoxiously loud giggle, only proving the other’s point.

“Damn right I am! Not like Engwand, he’sh always whiiiiiiiiiiining an’ cussing an’…” America trailed off, eyes focussing and un-focussing at something that wasn’t there. “Wha’ were we talken’ ‘bout again?”

Russia smiled gently. “Time for bed Fedya.”

America protested loudly as the ashen blond scooped him up in his arms. Russia mentally winced when the other tried grabbing onto his chair and splintered the wood in his grip.

“Bedtime for Alfedya~” he said in a sing-song voice, rocking his boyfriend soothingly as he carried him up the stairs.

America quickly grew tired of protesting and simply relaxed in Russia’s hold, resting his head against the soft fabric of his scarf.

“Not tired…” he mumbled, even though his eyes were already closing.

Russia chuckled as he used his hip to push against the door to their shared bedroom. He murmured softly under his breath as he helped the other change (there was no way America could change into his pyjamas in this state), and tucked him in. He kissed his loved-one on the forehead and made to exit again.

“You… Yo’re ain’ comin’?” the younger slurred.

“I will be up in a moment, dorogoy. Sleep,” Russia reassured him.

The nation made his way downstairs to do some cleaning. He tossed away the now empty bottles (one bottle of whiskey, four bottles of vodka) and tried to get rid of an old stain before giving up.

For the last hour or so, he’d been having the strangest feeling that someone was trying to call him.

Someone…

But who?

* * *

England frantically paced around as he chanted. His cape was flowing behind him, and the circle he’d drawn was already glowing.

This time, he would definitely succeed! Or his name wasn’t the United bloody Kingdom!

“Santo Rita Mita Meada Ringo Jonah Tito Marlon Jack La Toya Janet Michael Dumbledora The Explorer… Now show yourself!”

Yes! The glowing was intensifying! It was really working this time!

England crept closer to the summoning circle. Oh, he couldn’t wait to show this to Norway…

A tall figure became visible. Light hair, broad chest, rather large nose, scarf, violet eyes-

Oh for God’s sake, it was Russia!

The Russian giggled as he dusted off his jacket.

“Privet, Angliya. You called?”

The British nation cursed plentifully whilst Russia giggled in delight. But he was cut short as he realized he wasn’t fully present… When Russia glanced down, he noticed that his feet were still standing in America’s living room. It was a very odd sensation. He tried pulling up, but his feet refused to join his legs in England’s basement.

“You’re stuck,” England commented.

Russia shot him a strained smile as he continued his attempts at bringing his feet here.

“Need help with that?” the Englishman asked after a full minute of vain pulling went by.

Russia looked at him knowingly.

“Does that mean you are inviting me into your house?”

England crossed his arms.

“I don’t trust you, and you don’t trust me.”

“I do not trust anyone,” Russia replied with a childish smile.

England rolled his eyes and continued.

“Then why would I let you into my house?”

“Because you are a gentleman, and I am a fellow nation,” Russia replied smugly and without missing a beat.

They stared at each other long and hard, before the Brit finally gave an exasperated sigh.

“Fine then. I suppose since you’re here, I could give you a cup of tea. Now hold still, I’ll see what I can do to help.”

Russia tensed only for a short moment when the Englishman carefully laid his arms around his waist, but then he told himself not to act so foolish and helped the other pull his legs out of the ground. With their combined efforts they succeeded.

“Spasiba,” Russia muttered softly, eyes glinting dangerously to hide the true levels of his gratitude. It did feel awfully uncomfortable to have your legs stuck in another place.

“No problem. It’s this way to the kitchen.”

England grumbled sourly as he guided the unexpected guest to the ground floor of his humble abode. Russia’s eyes drank in all the sights he was provided with, a habit that stuck from when he went spying- no, stalking- no… following and watching the other nations in a completely friendly manner, without any hidden purposes. Russia made himself comfortable on the couch as England went to make them some tea.

“How come you always show up when I’m summoning?” the Brit’s voice sounded from the kitchen.

Russia placed his elbows on his knees and let his chin rest on his folded hands.

“I do not know, Arthur. It simply happens. Maybe you are using the wrong spell…?”

“Nonsense!” England seethed, making Russia chuckle.

The green-eyed nation returned with some Earl Grey. He handed one cup to his visitor and sat down in his favourite chair with another cup for himself. They drank for a few seconds, neither knowing what to talk about.

“Ah, I still had to thank you for that wooden soldier you made. Alfred was happy with it.”

England’s features softened at the recollection, before he shot a glare at Russia.

“I’m surprised he still has the damned things. Wouldn’t think he kept those after…”

The Brit took a quick sip of tea to hide his unsteady voice. Russia drummed his fingers against his cheek.

“He is no longer a child, you know.”

England looked up in confusion before his eyes widened.

“You can talk to him now, without getting yelled at. As men, not nations. That is, if you can drag his attention away from his videogames or hamburgers… Da, he might act like a stubborn teenager at times. But he has lived for hundreds of years, just like you and me.”

“You’re wrong.”

Russia smiled as he waited for England to elaborate.

“Not about the part of him growing up… I know bloody well he’s no longer the little colony we found in the wilderness. But it’s… painful, trying to talk about _it_. In the beginning, neither of us wanted to. I was too stubborn to admit I missed him, and he had his hands full with the founding of his own country. After that… It took us a long time before we could talk again. And even then, that topic was always carefully avoided. It took even longer for us to talk outside of meetings, to become something akin to friends. And, well… There were a couple of times, I really regret this ever happened, but… I got a bit drunk – all right, _really_ drunk – and showed up at his house. Crying for him to come back to me, to call me Engwand again like he used to, to be mine once more. Not very becoming of a gentleman at all. I was so stupid. It only made the topic even more awkward.”

Russia remained silent, even when tears started forming in the corners of England’s eyes.

“I still don’t know if we can ever be like that again. He was so trusting back then, always came to me when he needed something or found something new. I was amazing in his eyes, and he was my little angel. God, how I miss those days…”

England’s voice died, the nation lost in the forest of reminiscence. He seemed to have completely forgotten the presence of his guest. The tea was going cold as salty tears leaked into his cup.

The island nation was startled out of his sad thoughts when his cup was gently taken from his hands. He snapped his head back, eyes widening when he realized he’d told all this to Russia.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry, you didn’t have to listen to all that-“ England stopped talking when Russia pulled him out of the chair and into his arms.

The blond stiffened as he felt those big arms wrap themselves around his body. It felt like being hugged by a bear, soft and safe but with the danger of getting your bones crushed. And Russia wasn’t exactly the warmest nation on earth.

“I know how you feel, Angliya,” the Russian whispered into his ear. England remained completely still, not daring to breathe. “The past can be a painful thing, especially for us nations. That is why we have to live in the present.” He briefly pulled his head back to smile at the Englishman, a real smile this time. “Alfred reminded me of that.”

They stayed in that awkward position for quite a while. England was too afraid to push the other off, but he did calm down from his previous distress. Who would have thought that Russia had the empathic capabilities to comfort someone like this?

After some time, Russia let go.

“I mean it Arthur. You can talk with him. Just try it. I will take my leave now.”

And with that the Slavic nation finished his tea, waved sheepishly at his host, and left for the basement. England stared after him, dumbstruck.

As soon as he regained the ability to move his muscles, England shot towards his cellphone. He dialled the first number that was on the list and waited for it to go over.

“Bonjour, c’est France!”

“Francis!” England hissed, feverishly checking if his guest was really gone. “You won’t believe it, but Russia just hugged me! HE HUGGED ME!”

France chuckled mysteriously.

“Ah, Angleterre. Why are you so surprised? Is it not you who always said- what was it again…”

England just knew he could hear the other smirk.

“Miracles do happen.”

Somewhere at the other end of the earth, a certain Russian smiled to himself as he patted his boyfriend’s back, while the other was vomiting furiously into the toilet.

Night well spent~


	7. Dear Diary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Read Prussia's journal as he spends the day with his Canadian sweetheart.

**Gilbert’s journal**

**x day, x month, place: Ottawa, Canada**

**9.07 AM – The bathroom**

Me and Birdie were brushing our teeth. He uses maple flavoured toothpaste, I use mint. Do not ask me how he can handle the stuff, he’s just sweet like that. ;)

Gilbird tried to join the fun, but sadly birds have no teeth. I let him take a shower with us, and then Kuma got jealous. So we ended up taking a bubble bad, all four of us. And we hadn’t even had breakfast yet :D

**9.45 AM – The kitchen**

Birdie’s making pancakes. He ALWAYS makes pancakes. Good thing I love ‘em too! ^v^

**9.46 AM – The living room**

Got kicked out of the kitchen. :( Wanted to sneak up on him and steal a kiss, but he didn’t really appreciate that I tried taking a picture as well. IT WAS JUST TO PROVE OUR LOVE TO THE WORLD, MATTHEW. But I’ll go apologize later. I don’t like it when he’s mad at me. He’s too cute to be mad. <3

**11.24 AM – The bathroom**

We made up. And by made up, I mean made up all the way, if you know what I’m saying. ;D

No, but seriously. For a guy that shy he’s incredibly good at making up with me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d get him to be mad at me a lot more often. Still like it more when he’s not mad though.

**11.59 AM – The garden**

West just called. Wanted to know where I keep the rope.

So I told him: “Sorry bro, but I took it with me to Matt’s! If you want to get kinky with Feli that badly, you’ll have to wait.”

And you know what he did next? YOU KNOW WHAT HE DID? He got all flustered and started stuttering, and then he hung up on me!

I know my little brother too well. Ah, they grow up so fast. :’)

But seriously though, guy needs to buy his own rope. I need mine too often. XP

**12.35 PM – The living room**

Birdie just did the cutest thing ever!

I was talking about one of my sleepovers with Francy-pants and Tonio, and Lizzy just showed up at one point. Then I described to Matt how Francis was really drunk and tried to make out with her, but she totally hit him up the head with a frying pan.

Wanna know what Matthew said next? He said: “Oh right, aren’t you and Elizabeta childhood friends?”

At first I didn’t expect any hidden meaning behind his words, so I just said: “Yeah, that’s right! But I don’t know why Francis would wanna kiss her, she kisses like a dude! Then again, Francy-pants is in love with a dude himself, so I guess that makes sense.”

AND YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED NEXT? Birdie got really quiet and started playing around with his coffee, and then I asked him “What’s wrong?” and he was like “Nothing…” But I just knew something was up, you know!

And then I realized… Matt was jealous! It just made me swell with pride, or something. With… yeah, let’s just say it was pride.

Anyway, I then told him nobody could kiss as good as he can, and I paid him A LOT of compliments, and from one thing came another…

So he’s totally waiting upstairs for me right now, but I just had to write this down first.

This day just keeps getting better and better, my awesome journal!

**14.57 PM – The bathroom**

Mein Gott. I…

Mein Gott.

**15.03 PM – The bathroom**

Okay. So, I am a complete idiot. Wanna know why?

We were just lying in his bed, you know, cuddling and all the good stuff. But then I looked at him, and I don’t know, he was just beautiful, you know? Still a bit sweaty, eyes big and shining, and…

I couldn’t help myself.

“Ich liebe Dich.”

That’s what I said. I’ve wanted to tell him that for the longest of times, and it just sorta slipped out of me. But you know what? Birdie didn’t understand.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

And he had this really excited look on his face, as if he sorta knew, but wasn’t sure or something.

And what did I do?

I chickened out. Instead of finally telling him what I feel about him, what I’ve been feeling for a couple of months now, I couldn’t say it. I mean, what a fucking retard am I?! I love him more than I ever loved Roderich, heck, I know I want to spend the rest of my life with him, so WHY CAN’T I JUST TELL HIM THAT?

I’m sorry Birdie. I’m a coward. Please forgive me.

**20.24 PM – The garden**

God has seen my stupidity and has come down to kick my ass, that is save me.

**23.38 PM – The bedroom**

Okay, that last entry was weird. But I have a very good explanation for that.

I’m just too fucking happy to spout anything but gibberish.

Okay, so this is what happened. After I chickened out on confessing to Birdie, I guess I looked a bit down. I must have, since Matt constantly tried to cheer me up. I told him I was fine, I was just a bit out of it. But my Birdie doesn’t give up that easily.

So when it was time for dinner, you know what that awesomely sweet nation did for me? He made us a romantic dinner for two by candlelight. Yeah, that definitely lifted my spirits. But that’s not the end of it. Oh, no.

The mood was really amazing, we had some nice background music, we talked and laughed and ate some great food, and did I already mention he looked absolutely stunning?

Anyway, at one point he smiled, like this special smile and he said:

“Prussie, je t’aime.”

And at that moment, I froze. I mean, you don’t get to be friends with France without knowing what “Je t’aime” means. So I looked up at him and I was gaping really dumbly, and he giggled and caressed my cheek.

“There is this thing called a dictionary, you know.”

That’s what he said. Apparently, because I wouldn’t tell him what “Ich liebe Dich” means, the sucker looked it up himself. And now he was confessing to me what I had wanted to confess to him, but couldn’t.

Would you believe me if I told you I could have died a happy man at that moment?

And no, I didn’t cry. I’m just allergic to feelings okay? It’s just that, when he said all that soppy shit afterwards (which I’m not gonna tell you, because that’s way too intimate for your ears), my eyes got a bit stingy, causing them to overflow. Not crying at all. Nope.

Anyway. Me and Birdie are finally a real couple now. Like, we already were before, but now we REALLY are going steady. I already called Antonio and Francis to shout in their ears, and they were happy for me. WELL THEY SHOULD BE. I was the only one left not going steady yet! (Again, it isn’t going steady when you haven’t confessed. Call me old-fashioned, but I like my traditions every now and then.)

He’s asleep now. I can’t help but stare at him.

When did I get to deserve such a sweet little angel?

* * *

“Gilbert?”

The Prussian closed his journal and glanced over his shoulder.

“Yeah, Birdie?”

Canada patted the empty space next to him, trying to find the albino’s figure without having his glasses to aide him.

“Come back to bed, mon amour.”

Gilbert couldn’t keep the grin from his face after hearing his lover say that. He quickly turned off the flashlight he’d been using in order to try and keep the other from waking up, and tip-toed over to the bed. He quickly slid under the covers and crawled over to the blond, heart swelling with glee as the Canadian immediately closed the distance and pulled him into an embrace. He loved the feeling of the nation snuggling up against his chest, of feeling warm and safe and happy.

“Goodnight, Gil.”

Prussia kissed him tenderly on top of his head.

“You too, mein Liebling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words:  
> Ich liebe Dich: I love you  
> Je t’aime: I love you  
> Mon amour: My love  
> Mein Liebling: My beloved


	8. Comfort Zone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Russia still hasn't learnt how not to accept challenges form America. This time it involves more alcohol. Very, very toxic alcohol.

“I know exactly why you always win from me in a drinking contest!”

Russia blinked and looked up from his needlework, right into the energetic blue eyes of his lover. America was leaning over the table, hands placed firmly on the surface and a victorious smirk showing off his brilliant teeth. Russia smiled that trademark creepy smile of his, and carefully finished another row of the pullover he’d been working on.

“Oh? And why would that be, dorogoy? Please, do enlighten me.”

America pointed a finger at him, forcing the Slavic nation to look up again.

“It’s because you always drink vodka! Really, I can’t believe I never thought of that! You’re practically immune to the stuff, of course you’re able to drink whole buckets of it without fainting!”

Russia carefully put away his needlework, and leant back in his chair. The American’s words were far more interesting at this point.

“And what do you expect me to do about it?”

America grinned widely, eyes flashing and fingers curling in excitement.

“Time to get out of your comfort zone, bud.”

He quickly raced towards the kitchen and came back with a bottle hidden behind his back. Russia tried to peer at the brand, but the sunny blond shook his head.

“You know, I got a little gift from Bolivia last week. Belated birthday stuff, whatever. Anyway, I would love for you to try it out.”

“And what is ‘it’, if I might ask?” Russia inquired, cocking an eyebrow. If there was one thing he had yet to learn, it was how not to accept a challenge from the American. The thrill he got from it was just too much fun, whether he ended up winning or losing – and if he lost, he always made sure to get the other back next time they had a bet. Like that one time America had beaten him at Tetris, and had been nagging to him about it for three weeks straight, Russia made sure to use his faucet when they played baseball after that. Hey, it wasn’t his fault he accidentally used a little too much force when hitting the ball. America should’ve told him not to use his beloved pipe. And the doctors certainly couldn’t prove otherwise when they had to treat his ribs (Russia only regretted that part a little bit, as it meant no sex for the remainder of the month).

“’It’, my dear Ruski, is this.”

And with that he dramatically held the bottle out, averting his eyes as if it were a basilisk or Medusa instead of some petty alcohol. Or not petty. Because Russia now recognized the label.

Cocoroco. Ninety-six percent alcohol. Illegal in most countries, and extremely toxic if drinking too much.

“How much do you expect me to drink from that?” the Russian asked, unable to keep the hint of worry out of his voice. It was true after all, he had grown too used to his vodka. Almost never had anything else. So how on earth could he predict his tolerance level to something like this?

“Just as much as you can. You know, until you feel like you’re about to pass out. Don’t want to put your life in danger.”

Russia eyed the bottle suspiciously, as if it would attack as soon as he looked the other way. America teasingly swayed it from left to right.

“What, is the Russian Federation scared of a little booze? Come on, Ivan. I expected more from you.”

Russia smiled. Not a happy one, but something that screamed “Challenge accepted.”

“Give me that.”

And without further ado, the Russian put the bottle to his lips, tilted his head back, and took a swig. Ignoring the scalding feeling sliding down his throat, he bravely took another one. And another. Soon the liquid was halfway gone. But he kept drinking, chugging it down like it was nothing.

“Wow, wow! Easy there, big guy! You’ve never had this stuff before, shouldn’t you just take a little sip first?”

Russia brought the bottle down, smirking.

“See? Nothing wrong. I can… I… can…”

The room spun around him as he tipped to the side.

“Vanya!” a voice shouted, but it sounded distant and unreal.

Everything went black.

* * *

Russia woke up to the sound of crying. Or not exactly crying, more like blubbering. His stomach hurt like a bitch and his head was killing him. The Russian groaned as he tried to open his eyes, immediately closing them again when the light seemed to cut through his nerves.

“Ivan!” that obnoxiously loud voice wailed, and he felt a warm presence touching his face. He tried opening his eyes again, and looked down at his body. For some reason, his scarf was wet with tears, and there were flowers scattered across his body.

“Alfred?” he croaked, and he was unable to recognize his own voice. Even speaking hurt.

“Yeah?” the other sniffed, eyes still overflowing (and looking even more beautiful now, but Russia still preferred not seeing him cry).

“What happened?”

“You were gone man! Like, legit gone! I was worrying you wouldn’t wake up again!”

“Immortal, remember?” Russia whispered, trying to use as little words as humanly possible. He just felt like going back to sleep now, or maybe a quick stop at the bathroom to puke out his guts?

“Why the flowers?”

America sheepishly bowed his head.

“Uh… Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t performing a one-man burial on my couch? And that I wasn’t planning on calling your boss to beg him not to start a war because you died?”

Russia held back the chuckle, nor did he roll his eyes. Too painful to move.

“Putin probably would not laugh with that.”

“Yeah, that’s why I was stalling…”

“But Alfred?”

“What is it?”

Russia slowly caressed the other’s golden locks.

“Next time you want to make a bet, remind me again of how stupid we are.”


	9. The Love Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England is sick, and America and Russia decide to keep him company.

“Wha- Ow!”

England squinted his eyes at the harsh light invading the room. He was currently lying in his bed, being bed-ridden until at least tomorrow. Thanks to some imbecile frog he’d spent last night outside in the rain, resulting in a heavy cold. Luckily it wouldn’t take that long for the cold to go away, with him being a country, but he still figured he should rest today. France had been banished from his house until further notice, and he was supposed to be alone today.

‘Supposed’ being the keyword.

“Hey Iggy! Did ya sleep well?”

England groaned and looked up, right into the annoyingly happy toothpaste commercial smile of his former colony.

“Alfred Foster Jones, what on earth are you doing here?” the Englishman moaned, voice a tad hoarse.

America’s grin grew wider, and it was only then that England noticed something off about his attire. Since when did the American wear white coats?

“We’re here to make sure you get better of course! Couldn’t leave you all on your lonesome after France called and told us you’re sick, after all.”

“We?” England asked, dread washing over him as another figure appeared beside the American.

“Dobroe utro Angliya!” Russia chirruped, and England gulped. “I came to help, da?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout a thing, Iggy! Dr. Jones and his lovely assistant are here to help!”

“Lovely assistant?” Russia asked, smile going rigid.

“Uh…”

While a dark aura fell over the Russian and America quickly tried to apologize, England couldn’t help but pray. A feeling of anxiety washed over him at seeing those two lunatics grinning goofily, one dressed in a white doctor’s coat which was two sizes too big and the other waving around a syringe.

_‘God save the Queen…’_

The long afternoon began with America placing a hamburger on his forehead, just like he’d done last time. England shouldn’t be surprised that the American hadn’t learnt from previous mistakes.

“Dorogoy? I do not think it is working,” Russia softly tried to advice the younger.

“Of course it’s not working,” England grumbled sourly. “It’s a bloody hamburger. I’m sick, not hungry. And can’t you two just bugger off? I really don’t need any help.”

America waved his protests away.

“Nonsense! You always took care of me when I was uh… little, yeah, so now it’s time to return the favour!”

England fell silent at that, pleasantly surprised by the other’s reasoning. That was rather considerate of him.

“And we were bored,” Russia bluntly added, making the sunny blond slap him on his arm.

“You weren’t supposed to tell him!” America hissed, glancing back nervously at their patient.

England smirked. “Knew it would’ve been something like that.”

Russia smiled as he took a step forward.

“Since burger does not work, it is my turn, da?”

He playfully held the syringe in front of his eyes, squirting a bit of liquid out of the needle.

“What’s in that?” England asked, eyeing the object with a high level of distrust.

“Vodka of course!”

England groaned and shut his eyes as the other two began to argue again.

“Dude, you reject my hamburger idea but you think vodka will work? You really need to lay off, big guy.”

“What, why? Vodka always makes me feel better when I have a bad day. Injecting it will only make the happiness come quicker!”

“We’re not giving Iggy booze! You know he’s a terrible drunk!”

“I can hear you two, you know,” England commented dryly, massaging his temples. He could already feel a headache coming up.

“Oh, right! I know what he needs! TV!”

“All I need is for you two to leave,” England growled, his voice going completely unnoticed in a sudden couching fit.

“Wow! Iggy, you okay? Yeah, we’re definitely bringing you downstairs now. That way we can keep an eye on you! Ivan, would you mind…?”

And before England could protest, Russia threw back the covers and gathered him up in his arms.

“Hey! Put me down this instant, you bloody Kolkhoz!”

England struggled weakly to break free, but he could feel the tall nation tighten the grip on his body and a small sound of “kolkolkol” escape his lips. England stilled after that, not wanting to bring out the psychopath. This in turn made the Russian grin widely in delight, and England internally cursed his entire existence as he was brought downstairs. Russia made sure to swing his body as much as possible, despite him clearly being sick, and America was so lost in his own ramblings that he didn’t notice England’s discomfort.

“Will you stop that?!” the Brit quietly asked when he felt a wave of nausea flood his stomach.

“Stop what?” Russia asked innocently, eyes big and childish.

“The swinging. You’re not really being a very good son-in-law here.”

Russia almost dropped him after those words spilled from his mouth. England’s eyes widened and heat rose to his cheeks when the Russian gaped at him, own face painted pink.

“Eh? Do you really think of me as your son-in-law?”

“N-no!” England hissed. It was just a silly thought that had sort of popped up a second ago, and he hadn’t meant to say that at all. Probably the illness speaking.

“Hey, you two coming or what?” a loud voice sounded from the living room.

“Coming, sunflower!” Russia sung back, and England cringed at the obvious fondness seeping from it.

“Do you really have to give him such preposterous nicknames?” he asked, after which those bright violet orbs fell upon his face again.

“Da! It shows that you love them, right?”

England couldn’t really answer to that straightforward confession. It made him think about the nicknames he had for his own… lover.

Frog. Wine-loving bastard. Frog face. Sodding twit.

…He wasn’t really original.

And then there were France’s nicknames for him.

Angel. Bunny. Treasure. Love. Sweetheart. Dearest. And the list just kept going on.

…Maybe he should try saying something sweet next time they met? Not to do the Frenchman a favour of course, that’d be absurd. Just for… for science.

“And here we are!” Russia interrupted his train of thoughts, dropping him unceremoniously on the couch. Immediately after, England had to sit up as America pushed a cup of scalding hot chocolate milk into his hands and the two nations squeezed themselves onto the couch next to him, England squashed in the middle.

“…Why are you sitting here?”

“To watch TV of course!” America yelled in his ear, Russia already reaching for the remote to prevent his boyfriend from putting on anything nonsensical.

“We do not want you to feel lonely,” the Slavic nation giggled, and England’s headache became reality right then and there.

It was peaceful for a moment, one single moment, and then someone had to ruin it again.

“But Vanyaaaaaa, I don’t wanna watch figure skating!”

“And I do not want to watch America’s Got Talent.”

“Then why don’t we watch some cartoons?”

“I do not feel like watching cartoons. How about soap opera? We can laugh, you like that right?”

“Nah, not today… Hey, I think they’re showing Iron Man 2 tonight! Wanna watch that?”

“Is that the one with Russian villain?”

“…You’ve seen Iron Man 2?”

England sighed as he tried to move his legs. They were already falling asleep, mushed together as they were. If he’d known his sick day would be spent with the two biggest idiots on earth, he would’ve gone to France’s place instead. At least France knew to keep quiet when he had a cold, and he was also much less touchy-feely then.

“England? You all right?”

The green-eyed nation looked up to see Flying Mint Bunny sitting on his knee, staring up at him.

“I’ve felt better,” England admitted, giving the creature a few pets on the head.

“Should we make them leave?” Bunny asked, smiling mischievously.

England contemplated the thought, but finally shook his head.

“No thank you, I can take care of them myself. Kind of you to ask though.”

“Iggy?”

England’s head snapped back when he found his two guests staring at him quizzically.

“Is everything all right dude? You were kinda talking to yourself.”

“I think fever has risen to his head, da?” Russia said, placing a (cold!) hand on the Brit’s forehead.

England jerked back, away from the touch.

“No! I was just talking to Flying Mint Bunny is all.”

“Iggy? You know those things don’t exist, right?”

“Maybe he needs lobotomy!” Russia remarked in an ominously light tone.

Suddenly, England had enough of it all.

“That’s it! We’re in my house, we’re doing as I say now! I don’t care if you two think I’m delirious, but me being sick doesn’t mean you can just barge in here and start taking over the house!”

America gaped at him, Russia simply smiled eerily.

“Alfred, you get off the couch. There isn’t enough space and I would like to rest my feet. We are watching Doctor Who now, whether you two like it or not. And Russia…”

The Russian turned towards him with big sparkling eyes, seeming very amused with the turn of events.

“…Can I have your hand back? I hate to admit it, but that feels awfully nice against my overheated skin.”

“Of course,” Russia purred, and America sulked as he crawled into the tall nation’s lap instead.

It was an odd sight to behold, those three men on the couch. England resting against Russia’s shoulder, the Russian’s hand on his forehead, America trying to make himself comfortable in the larger nation’s lap, and Russia being all smiles and sunshine as he propped his chin on top of America’s skull. An odd trio indeed.

And that is exactly how France found them several hours later, with only a few minor changes. One being that they had all fallen asleep. At one point, America’d gotten cold and Russia had opened up his coat for the other to crawl into, after which he’d buttoned it up again. America’s nose peeked over the hem and Russia’s hands were wrapped around his stomach so that he didn’t fall. Russia himself was leaning back against the couch, and England was still lying on his shoulder, drooling on his scarf. Good thing the Russian wasn’t awake to witness such crimes against humanity.

France tip-toed over to the trio, softly taking his beloved in his arms so as not to wake anyone up. He then began carrying the Brit over to his bedroom, leaving the other two to have the couch all for themselves. Halfway up the stairs, England stirred awake.

“Wha- what is-“

“Ssssh. Hush, mon ange. I am only bringing you to your bed. No need to wake up.”

England mumbled something as he fisted his hand into France’s shirt, and the blue-eyed nation bent over.

“Qu’est-ce que tu as dit?” he asked, England’s messy locks tickling his cheek as he brought his ear to the other’s lips.

“…I love you,” were the whispered words that reached him.

France almost dropped England after that. That was twice today; England really needed to stop saying unexpected things when being carried.

“Quoi? Angleterre, I think you are still ill-“

England smiled gently, and France almost felt his heart stop. The Brit’s eyes were closed, his face a bit flushed, and without the usual frown he looked oh so gorgeous.

“Je t’aime, mon nounours.”

France’s heart really did stop at hearing those sweet, sweet words fall from the other’s lips. Not only because it was spoken in French, but because it was the first time he’d ever heard England say he loved him without a ‘maybe’ or ‘I think’ following right behind. True, England was sick, but France felt as if he were walking on clouds and roses while crossing the last meters towards England’s bedroom.

“Et moi, je ’t’aime aussi,” he replied, carefully placing the half-asleep Brit in the middle of the bed. “Je t’adore. Je t’admire. Je te chéris. Toujours, tous les jours, pour le reste de l’éternité. Je t’aime, Loulou. Je t’aime.”

France kissed him softly as he lay down beside him, the Brit instantly clinging to him in his sleep. If England was always like this when he was sick, then he definitely wouldn’t mind staying up at night in the rain again.

“Bonne nuit, mon coeur.”

* * *

England woke up feeling refreshed the next morning. He wasn’t all that shocked to see France lying next to him, used to the other’s habits of sneaking in at night. He was in too good of a mood today to make the fool leave.

England carefully unwrapped himself from the other’s arms and made his way downstairs, feeling like having a nice cuppa and reading this morning’s newspaper now that the fever had gone down.

On the last step, he paused.

Russia and America were still sound asleep on his couch. Only, at one point during the night, Russia had woken up and switched their positions. They were now lying sideways on the piece of furniture, Russia against the back of the couch and America next to him, still safely huddled up in his large trench coat. Russia had wrapped his arms around the other’s back, keeping him close and sharing the warmth between them. America had his face buried in the Russian’s scarf, and Russia’s nose fit snugly in America’s hair. Their legs were tangled-up, making it almost impossible to see where one body stopped and the other began. They looked so… peaceful.

“Angletere?” France’s soft voice came, the Frenchman having woken up as well now that his arms were empty of another person. Azure eyes fell upon the display, and he smiled as he snaked a hand around England’s waist.

“Ah, young love. Beautiful, n’est-ce pas?”

England opened and closed his mouth a few times, before swallowing and trying again.

“It’s… oddly normal, seeing them cuddle. As if it was just…”

“Meant to be?” France finished for him, grinning when England lightly elbowed him in the gut.

“Something like that,” the British gentleman admitted, blushing when he placed a hand upon the one around his waist and intertwined their fingers.

“Come, mon amour. Let’s leave them be while we have breakfast.”

“Yes… Wouldn’t want to infect their puppy love with our stuffy oldness.”

“And who are you calling old?” France huffed playfully, and England smirked.

The Brit left for the kitchen, but before France could follow him, he was stopped by a voice.

“Spasiba, Frantsiya.”

France turned around, raising an eyebrow at the sleepy face of Russia. The Russian grinned lazily, like a cat, and continued.

“I still had to thank you for making me realize what love is. You know, when I called you that one time?”

“Ah,” the blond gasped, a memory flashing in front of his inner eye. “But of course. So, my advice helped?”

Russia fondly looked at his lover as he made a little whining noise in his sleep, tightening his grasp.

“Definitely. So again, spasiba.”

“You’re welcome,” France replied, leaving the two youngsters to their own devices as he left for his one true love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words:  
> Dobroe utro: Good morning  
> Angliya: England  
> Mon ange: My angel  
> Qu’est-ce que tu as dit: What did you say?  
> Quoi: What?  
> Je t’aime: I love you  
> Mon nounours: My teddy bear  
> Je t’adore: I adore you  
> Je t’admire: I admire you  
> Je the chéris: I cherish you  
> Toujours: Always/forever  
> Tous les jours: Every day  
> Pour le reste de l’éternité: For the rest of eternity  
> Loulou: No translation, a cute French nickname for men  
> Bonne nuit: Goodnight  
> Mon Coeur: My heart  
> N’est-ce pas: Isn’t it?  
> Mon amour: My love  
> Spasiba: Thank you  
> Frantisya: France


	10. Phobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America wants to know what Russia's afraid of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason America calls England Iggy is because he heard Japan call him Igirisu and thought it was hilarious. On top of that, in my stories the full human name of England is Arthur Ignatius Kirkland, hence Iggy.

It all began with one single question.

“Hey Ivan, what are you afraid off?”

And an equally simple answer.

“Nothing, lapushka.”

America set down his mug of coffee, surprise evident in his expression.

“What? Come on dude, quit it. Everyone’s afraid of something.”

“Ah, then let me rephrase it. Nothing I am eager to inform you about.”

America frowned, twirling the cup in his hands.

“Spill the beans, big guy. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Nyet.”

“Come ooooooooooooooon! I know everyone else’s fears! I’m afraid of ghosts, Germany’s scared of naked women and someone discovering his porn, Italy fears his own shadow, the Baltics are afraid of y- Belarus! Yeah, I know! You’re afraid of your sister!”

Russia squirmed around uncomfortably in his chair, folding his hands together in his lap.

“Not necessarily… Only when she gets clingy. When she is in a good mood, she can be enjoyable company. Really.”

“Okay, but then what are you afraid of?”

The Russian sighed, gaze wandering off.

“I am truly not keen on telling you, Alfred.”

“But I can guess, right? So what is it? Spiders?”

“Nyet.”

“The dark?”

“No.”

“Ghosts?”

“That is you, dorogoy.”

“…England’s cooking?”

“Every sane man fears his cooking.”

America huffed. “Why won’t you tell me? It’s not fair! We’re in a relationship, we should be able to tell each other everything!”

The other blushed at his choice of words, but stubbornly kept his mouth shut. After a while, America sighed.

“Fine. Don’t tell me. But I hereby declare that I will find out, like it or not!”

And with those words, the blond stormed off, already planning his next step. Russia wanted to call after him, but hesitated. He really didn’t want anyone to find out about his pathetic phobia…

* * *

“Boo!”

Russia cocked an eyebrow when America appeared before him, dressed in a white blanket.

“I already told you, Alfred. I am not afraid of ghosts.”

“…Not even fake ones?”

“Nyet. Not even fake ones.”

Russia pushed him aside and continued on his way.

…

The Slavic nation was going through some documents he had to prepare for the next World Conference, when there was suddenly an obviously fake plastic spider placed on his desk. He tried to act as if he didn’t notice the American hiding on the other side of his desk, even when Nantucket peeked over the edge of it. A hand sneakily pushed the object closer, and he could hear the other force himself not to snort.

“Oh my, a spider. Whatever am I to do?” he sighed, rolling his eyes.

America jumped up, dramatically pointing at him.

“Aha! You’re afraid of- Gyah!”

The sunny blond fell backwards when Russia threw the plastic animal in his face.

“Not afraid of spiders,” he called after America, as the younger nation stomped out of his office.

…

America tried it all. Clowns. A thunderstorm. Insects. Loud noises. Germs (don’t ask how he experimented with that one, but it involved getting naked and rolling around in the mud). Snakes. The dentist (that was a real phobia, apparently). Fog. Vegetables. Beards (if Peter banned beards at one point, it was worth the try to see if Russia himself was afraid of them). Fire. Sharks. Rats. Witchcraft. Sharp things.

Nothing worked. It only ended in the Russian finally getting fed up with him and not coming over for two months.

America made sure not to try anything again as soon as they were in each other’s arms again (not that Russia gave him even a second time to consider such antics, especially when he seemed equally as desperate after two months of neglecting).

* * *

“What are you doing?”

America looked down from where he was dangling on the branch of a tree. He was hanging upside down, trying to repair a broken window that was just too high for his ladder to reach. Hanging from the branch of the tree like this was his only way at reaching the thing.

“Hey Ivan, perfect timing! Could you come up and give me that screwdriver? I need a bigger one-“

“Get down!”

“Huh?”

Alfred glanced down again, only now noticing the horrified look on the Russian’s face.

“No, I wanna finish this first! Don’t worry dude, this tree’s strong enough to hold me.”

To underline his words, he swung around for a bit.

“Do not do that!” Russia shrieked, stepping forward as if to catch him.

America psh-ed at him.

“Whatever. If you’re not gonna help me, could you at least bring me some cola? I’m getting kina thirsty.”

Russia nodded, but his eyes didn’t leave the other’s body.

“Uh… Now, please?”

“Da…”

Russia shook his head, expression unreadable. As he began making his back to the house, America frowned.

_‘The hell was that about?’_

...

More of those strange instances began grabbing the American’s attention.

Like that one time when he wanted to cross a river using a rope ladder. Or when he went on the roof to get some dirt out of his chimney. Or when he wanted to climb on top of the Eiffel Tower to piss off France.

Each and every single one of those occurrences, Russia had looked and acted absolutely terrified.

Russia was afraid of heights.

America couldn’t believe he’d never noticed it before, but he supposed it wasn’t all that obvious. Russia was fine with planes, or places where he his safety was secured. It was only when doing risky stuff at high places, or when he had to depend on his own hands and legs to remain standing, that is when the Russian freaked out.

America felt like he needed one final test to prove his theory.

“Can I look yet?” Russia asked, pawing at his blindfold.

“No, not yet! We’re almost there bud. Watch your step here- yeah, like that.”

America grinned secretively as they reached their destination. He had taken his lover up to the roof of a really high building, and had reserved a seat for just the two of them at the very edge of it. He was going to prove right then and there that Russia was indeed afraid of heights!

“Okay, you can look now!” America said, grinning excitedly at the prospect of proving he was right about something.

The blindfold came off, and Russia opened his eyes. As soon as he did though, he froze. As in, his entire body stilled, his eyes grew wide, and his breath was cut short.

“I thought that the view from up here would be terrific! So What do you think, big guy?”

No reaction.

“…Uh, Vanya?”

America was starting to get a little worried now. The platinum blond looked like a small terrified animal, pupils tiny in his pools of liquid amethyst and posture completely frozen in shock.

“Okay, Ivan? You’re kinda freaking me out here.”

Finally the Russian began breathing again. Only, they weren’t exactly healthy oxygen-intakes. It was ragged, short and panicky, the air rattling in and out at a pace his longs couldn’t possibly be able to follow.

America realized he’d overlooked one tiny little fact in his big master plan. He didn’t like it when people had panic attacks, especially not when he was the cause of them. So he immediately took action.

The young nation shot forward and placed one arm protectively around the other’s stomach. Russia flinched at the touch, but tamely let himself be dragged back onto the roof.

“Don’t worry big guy. I got you. You’re safe.”

America soothingly stroked his hair as he pulled him down into a crouching position. Russia coiled in on himself, placing his head between his legs. The American rocked him gently, stroking his back and murmuring reassurances that everything was going to be all right.

He solemnly swore to himself that he would never try to scare the Russian again.

* * *

It took a long while for Russia to calm down again. When he finally did, he was pissed. Not ready to beat him to a pulp, but hurt. Which was far worse in America’s eyes.

“What were you thinking?!” the violet-eyed nation hissed.

“I only did it because you wouldn’t tell me about it!”

Russia sent him a glare so cold it chilled his bones to the very core.

“You want to know about my fear? Fine. I hate high places, always have. I have trained myself to remain calm, but when I am not prepared for it… You saw what happened.”

America got to his knees, folding his hands together and putting on his best kicked puppy face.

“Please, Ivan. I’m terribly sorry. I won’t ever do it again. I was just curious, that’s all. But now I know it was stupid of me to push you. Won’t you please forgive me?”

Russia sighed, putting his head in his hands.

“It will take more than a simply ‘sorry’ to make me forgive you.”

“I’ll do anything.”

The Russian smiled slyly at his words.

“Oh, really? Then how about you go start up that new ghost film you bought? And watch it. Alone. In the dark.”

America’s grin deflated, and he gulped.

“A-and there’s no other way?”

“Nyet,” Russia replied, a note of finality in his tone.

The smaller nation hung his head and drooped off to the living room. Russia watched him disappear with hooded eyes, and sighed internally.

Of course he would forgive him for his stupidity. What other choice did he have? For he had one other fear, overpowering all others.

The fear of losing America.

He knew America was going to leave him one day. Everyone always left him. It was the one nightmare he could never get rid of.

He loved that silly man. Every single thing about him. Those energetic blue eyes, his passion, his laughter full of life, how he put others before himself, all his different expressions, his obnoxious singing under the shower, how he always folded Russia’s scarf before they had sex, even the way he smelled.

But it was not to last. Nothing was ever to last for them, being what they were. Eternity is a very long time, after all.

That is why he simply had to forgive him. He had to make every moment count, enjoy this happiness for as long as it lasted.

For America was his sunflower, the one thing he wanted with all his heart but didn’t deserve to have.

So he had to be thankful for the other’s kindness and generosity for as long as he could. Only that way could he forget about the darkness. Only that way could they be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to end it on such a sad note, but this is just the way he feels. Russia has had such bad experiences with others that he finds it really difficult to fully trust someone and open up to them.  
> Of course, since America himself isn’t planning on leaving him anytime soon, his doubts are bound to grow lesser and lesser overtime, perhaps even disappear someday. If there’s one nation who will be able to make Russia forget about his distrust, it has to be America. ;)


	11. Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Russia and America have a fight.

England’s fingers worked at an almost imperceptible pace as he finished off another part of the scarf. The needles made an audible tick-tick noise in the quiet room, its three occupants not speaking with each other. His eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, the tip of his tongue sticking out.

Canada nervously patted Kumajiro on the head, eyes shooting back and forth between his former caretaker and quote-unquote twin brother. The polar bear licked his hand soothingly, sensing its friend’s distress. Canada smiled down at him, holding the cub closer to his chest.

America was the last one in the room. He sat in his chair, knees spread and arms stubbornly folded across his chest. The scowl still hadn’t left his face, and his right foot was persistently tapping the floor. His glasses were taped together with scotch tape, and stood a bit crookedly on top of his nose.

He was pissed. At Russia, but also at himself. Mostly at Russia though, because he wasn’t ready to admit his mistakes yet.

They’d had a fight. It was something silly, really. America didn’t even remember what it had been about. But somehow the snarled remarks had turned into an all-out fist fight, and he’d managed to rip the Russian’s scarf, the exact same moment Russia snapped his glasses in half. Which was the reason England was now trying to fix it.

America could still clearly picture the hurt on his lover’s face at seeing his beloved scarf in ruins. He wanted to say it had been his own damn fault, but he couldn’t. And America was pissed because he couldn’t. He just wanted to blame everything on Russia, be as mad as fucking possible, but he knew that would be unfair, and that made him even more enraged.

Russia had left as soon as the damage was done. Without looking back, without saying a single word, leaving his scarf behind in his panicked distress. America had seen the tears which the tall nation so desperately tried to hide, and he wished he hadn’t, because it made him feel like the worst person on earth.

But he still refused to be anything other than angry at the moment. He wasn’t feeling sorry at all. Nope, no siree, because it wasn’t his fault, not at all.

It definitely wasn’t regret that made him call England and ask him to come over. It wasn’t because he was upset that he was happy his brother had come with. Nope. He was too mad to be upset, and he had every fucking right to be!

The clock struck twelve, and America burst into tears.

And he hated himself as Canada hurried over to comfort him, knowing he didn’t deserve pity.

It was all his fucking fault, he’d screwed up, and now nothing made sense anymore.

* * *

Russia rummaged through his pile of dirty clothes, searching for something to wear that didn’t remind him of America.

The tears had long since dried up, but he hated how red his eyes looked and how wet his nose was. He felt pathetic for running the way he had, but the loss of his greatest treasure had temporarily taken away his ability to think rationally. He had run all the way to the airport, helplessly clutching his neck and giving anyone who dared look his way such a cold dead-glare they didn’t make the same mistake twice.

Now he was at home, back in his cold empty house a little outside the city of Moscow, ready to drown his sorrows in alcohol.

He had ruined everything. There was no way their relationship was going to recover from this. They were too easy to break, one silly argument leading to the destruction of his scarf and the other’s glasses, both gifts from precious family members. He had known all along it was never to last, but to have it end so soon… That he did not expect.

America had to hate him now. See him for the monster he truly was. And Russia only had himself to blame.

The Cold War had been the topic of their conversation. It would always be the Cold War with them. How couldn’t it be? He had said something that didn’t fall well with America, the younger had retaliated with something that ticked him off… And somehow it had all escalated from zero to one hundred in less than five minutes.

Russia quickly put on his orange turtleneck, something he’d last worn when he and America weren’t together yet. He immediately felt safer, having his neck covered. But the whirlpool of emotions in his stomach didn’t lessen one single bit.

It almost felt right, having his scarf taken away from him. A goodbye gift, the ending of a peaceful era. The happiest period of his life, it had been.

But alas. He was Russia. He didn’t deserve America, never had. He had been blinded by the other’s warm aura, but now he saw the truth once more.

New tears flooded his eyes as he went down to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of vodka, chugging half of it down in one go.

 _‘Look at what you do to me, Amerika…’_ he thought, dragging a hand under his nose. _‘You make me so weak. I used to be strong once. Powerful, respected. Then I was loved, and you made me happier than ever. Now… Now I am nothing.’_

He dragged himself to the couch, painful throbbing in his chest never ceasing. He thought it a pity he was unable to rejoice in breaking America’s glasses. Back when he was the USSR he would have loved it, seeing the other crippled and helpless before him. Those days were long since gone. He cared too much now. He’d gone soft.

_God how he regretted that fight…_

His phone went over, but the ashen blond ignored it. He simply curled up on his sofa, trying to ignore the pained stabs in his chest. It felt like his heart was going to fall out again, and he wasn’t exactly keen on that happening.

But he didn’t have any choice in the matter. Because as soon as that goofy smile and golden hair flashed in front of his inner eye, the throbbing only increased, and he could do nothing but cry out wretched sobs as regret cut through his being.

_‘I am so sorry for making you hate me, sunflower…’_

* * *

Someone was very persistently ringing his doorbell. Russia wished they would stop. His head was hurting too much from all the vodka he’d drunk last night. Or this night, as it was a quarter past five in the morning, too early to be considered day yet.

This was the seventh day in a row he’d woken up like this. Seven days since he’d last spoken to America. America, no longer Alfred. He knew he’d lost that privilege by getting into a fight with him.

“Go away…” he groaned when the ringing didn’t stop, pulling a pillow over his head.

When it finally did stop, he sighed in relief. Only to shoot up a second later, as he could hear someone banging impatiently on his window. They really weren’t planning on letting him be, were they?

The Russian grumbled as he dragged himself out of his make-shift bed and padded to the front door, floor feeling cold to his socked feet. He undid several locks and cracked the door open, grumpily staring at the intruders.

Then he just stared.

“Fucking finally! My balls are freezing off out here!”

Russia could do nothing to stop him as Prussia all but stomped inside, running over to the fireplace and getting it burning at lightning speed. France hesitantly stepped in behind him, sending an apologetic smile at the Russian.

“Désolé, Russie. Gilbert was not very keen on getting out of his bed at this hour. We did not wake you, did we?”

Russia blinked, watching in awe as France shrugged off a fancy winter coat.

“Chto ty zdes’ delayesh’?” he breathed, forgetting how to speak English for a moment.

France blinked, then his careful smile widened.

“Russie, mon cher, it is not because I knew Russian at one point that I have remembered it perfectly. You will have to translate that for me, if you don’t mind.” He was referring to their first meeting, back when he and Russia actually were sort-of friends (and Russia even had a little crush on the flamboyant Frenchman, but was too naïve to realize it).

“Ah, izvinite. I was asking you what on earth you are doing here?”

“We’re here to talk some sense into your lame-ass fuckhead!” Prussia yelled from the living room.

Russia was stunned and France laughed awkwardly.

“Why don’t we go to the living room? We indeed came to talk, as my colleague so eloquently put it.”

“Talk about what?” the violet-eyed nation asked, raising his eyebrows in confusion as he was guided through his own house. Once in the living room all three nations sat down, Prussia closest to the fireplace, France next to the door, as if wanting to have an easy escape route. Russia was still very confused as to the reason of their visit, and could only stare.

“Arthur informed us that you are apparently on bad terms with Amérique,” France began, getting right to the point.

The Russian tensed, eyes darkening with unwanted emotions. He had been able to shut them out the past days, but at the mere mention of his name they came back with twice as much vigour.

Seeing his reaction, France instantly continued.

“I know it is none of our business-“

“Da. It is not. So kindly keep out of it,” Russia informed him, voice sounding cold even to his own ears.

Prussia tsk-ed at him and rolled his eyes. Before France could stop him he stood up, walked over to Russia and bent over, putting his arms on the armrests. Russia let out a soft kolkolkol, but the albino glared at him with such intensity it eventually died away.

“Listen here, Braginski. I’m going to say this once, and only once. You are going to stop being a whiney little bitch right this moment, take a shower, clean up, jump on a plane to Washington D.C. and make up with the son of a bitch.”

Russia paused, his eyes widening in shock. Never before had anyone spoken to him like this (besides America, but he didn’t want to think about America).

“But-“

“No buts,” Prussia cut him off. “I am saying this for your own good, Braginski. I have lived with you for several years after the fall of my nation.”

It was the very first time they had heard him talk about his dissolution so casually, making it extra clear that this was serious business.

“Never, and I mean _never_ , have I seen you as happy as when you are with him. Or friendly, for that matter. The kid’s good for you, you fucking Arshloch. He makes you less annoying to hang around. So get off your fat ass and go to him!”

France crept closer, subtly pulling the red-eyed nation away from the Russian. Russia was frozen in shock, eyebrows ready to fly off in disbelief and jaw hanging to the ground.

“ _Russie_. Did I not already say it? L’amour est une catastrophe magnifique. It is wonderful, but can also be painful. There are ups and downs. You should not give up because of one little fight. Go to him, show him your regret, and then make up! I am not saying it is going to be simple, but it is better than not being with him at all, n’est-ce pas?”

“Nyet…” Russia whispered, letting his defences slip just enough for the other two to see the amount of hurt colouring his soul. “It was not just a silly fight. It was bad, really bad. He will never forgive me.”

“You don’t know that,” Prussia immediately said. “You only know how he’ll react if you talk to him. So do it already!”

“Why? What is the point?”

“Because it is worth it. Because you two fit together better than anybody else. Because you two smile more often when you are with each other, real smiles,” France softly added. “Please, Russie. Love is always worth it.”

“Why are you telling me this?” the Russian asked. “Why would you care?”

“Because Matt keeps whining that his brother’s up- Ow!” Prussia grumbled indignantly after France slapped him up the head.

“Because we are all nations, and none of us deserve to be unhappy.”

Russia smiled cynically. Yeah, right. As if anyone cared about his happiness.

Anyone but…

 _‘Alfred…’_ he thought, and once more his stomach clenched together.

He sighed, exasperated, accepting his fate.

“All right. I… I will try.”

“We’ll leave as soon as you’ve put on some fresh clothes!” Prussia cackled, France happily clasping his hands together.

“Wait! We need to go by an optician before we leave the country.”

* * *

**_Frog:_ ** _We’re coming with the next flight._

Arthur nodded to himself as he read the message, quickly hiding his phone when the American brothers entered the room. The sunny blond still looked as miserable as he did at the beginning of the week. Nightmares had kept him up every night, the young nation fully blaming himself for the fight. He too was one hundred percent positive the relationship was over and done with, and that the other was never going to forgive him.

“We’re going on a trip, Alfred.”

The Brit made brief eye-contact with the Canadian, silently conveying the message he’d just received from their partners in crime.

“Don’t wanna,” America sulked, staring pitiably at the floor. There were bags under his eyes, he hadn’t combed his hair in days, and even Nantucket seemed to have knots in it.

“Oh yes we are,” Canada said with a huff.

The next hour, England and Canada could be found trying to drag America out of his house and into Canada’s car.

It took a lot of effort.

* * *

Russia was a nervous wreck by the time their plane landed. France and Prussia had gone with him for moral support, but he quite regretted travelling with them now. Prussia constantly trying to make him look outside the window, and France nearly getting kicked off the plane for flirting with the stewardess.

Now they were in the USA, and he was fully dreading what was to come. He didn’t want to see America, didn’t want to see the look of hatred he knew he would find. He was afraid, so very afraid.

“Russie. Look.”

The Russian lifted up his head, casting a glance in the direction in which France was pointing.

Then time seemed to slow down.

There, at the other end of the hall, stood a very familiar man.

Violet clashed with blue, like a key fitting into a lock.

Russia saw no hate, no disgust in his gaze. It had something shy, sad, and Russia hated that look on him.

For America was like the Sun to him. A being of light, warmth and energy, the one thing he worshipped above all else. That look didn’t fit such a celestial being. He had to look happy, deserved to be happy, and Russia wanted to beat up whoever made him like that before realizing it was himself, and he felt a new wave of regret wash over him.

America’s eyes started prickling dangerously when he saw his own sorrow reflected in the other’s eyes. He didn’t want Russia to look like that. The Moon had been lonely for far too long, he needed someone to make him happy, needed… needed…

Russia carefully took a step forward, heart hammering against his ribs when he saw America copy his movements. America. America, America, America. He came to see him. _He came for him_.

The steps became faster, more hurried, more needy as they saw the other moving closer, tears streaming out of America’s eyes by the time they were close enough to touch, Russia letting out a low keening noise as he spread his arms and embraced the other, nearly engulfing him with his broad figure.

They could do nothing but desperately cling to each other, words failing them as they tried to tell each other how sorry they were, how they didn’t want to break it off at all, how they needed to be held like this forever.

“I’m so sorry Ivan, I’ve been such an ass!” America blubbered, hands fisting themselves into the other’s oversized trench coat.

“Nyet, nyet! I was at fault, I… You, we…”

A choked laugh squeezed its way out of his throat, directly followed by a loud sob. He was holding the blond so tightly he was afraid to smother him, but America made no complaints, and he was glad for that, because he wouldn’t have let go even if he did.

“Here, I got Arthur to fix your scarf,” Alfred hastily said, rummaging through his backpack, only now understanding why Canada had told him to bring it along.

“And I got a new frame for Texas…”

America laughed as well and suddenly they were all over each other, kissing like there was no tomorrow, like they hadn’t touched one another for years, and it was like discovering each other all over again.

Russia giggled in delight, genuine delight, as he tried to fix America’s glasses. The American kept placing pecks on top of his nose while trying to wind the scarf around his lover’s neck, loving to be held with such tenderness, loved to be touched and wanted and wanting himself.

“Let’s never fight like that again, ‘kay big guy?” America laughed through his tears, letting the other wipe his thumbs under his eyes to get rid of the salty wetness. He reciprocated by giving the Russian an eskimo kiss, sliding his nose over the other’s much larger one.

“I love you, you know that? I fucking love you, always, always…”

Russia murmured a soft and sincere “Ya lyublyu tebya, podsolnechnik,” pressing another chaste kiss to his plump lips.

They only stopped when they became aware of people applauding, realizing they were still standing in the middle of the airport, entangled in a rather intimate position.

America blushed and grinned widely, nodding at the entrance.

“Let’s go to my place, that sound good for ya?”

Russia quickly placed one final kiss on his forehead before burying his nose in his scarf, hiding a shy yet happy smile.

“Da, that sounds perfect.”

* * *

Four nations watch them retreat, two with pleased smiles, one with a twitching eye, and one studying his nails as if he’d seen loads more interesting things.

“I’m glad they made up,” Canada said, giggling when Prussia snaked an arm around his waist.

“They’d better! I didn’t go all the way to Moscow at fucking five in the morning to have my mission fail!” the albino huffed.

“Ah, l’amour~ It is everywhere in the air, can you feel it Angleterre?” France sighed dreamily.

England’s eye twitched again.

“If I ever see Russia kiss my Alfred like that again, I’m going to set his scarf on fire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words:  
> Désolé: Sorry  
> Chto ty zdes’ delayesh’?: What are you doing here?  
> Podsolnechnik: Sunflower


	12. There for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France and England talk for a bit.

There was much more than meets the eye to England.

Above all he was a nation, of course. But his identity didn’t swing one way, nor did it the other. It waved in all different directions, from the north to the south to the east to the west.

He was a gentleman. Polite, helping ladies in their chairs and letting other pass through doors before him. Tipping his hat in greeting, stopping in his busy schedule to make small talk with the neighbours. Never did he leave the house with just a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, and he always made certain to provide his guests with beverages and snacks.

He was also magical. A magician, a wizard, a mage, whatever you’d like to call it. At ease around his ‘imaginary’ friends, thoroughly enjoying the dark and obscure. He also loved to experiment, both with spells and potions and in the kitchen (unfortunately).

He was a pirate. An ex-empire. A hoodlum and a lover of rock ’n’ roll.

Cocky, sarcastic, proud, stubborn, had the mouth of a sailor and a higher libido then he would like to admit.

He could also be surprisingly pessimistic. A terrible drunk. An even worse cook. A too possessive big brother, unable to deal with goodbyes and desperately holding onto the past.

Never truly letting go of his little America, that child that looked up at him with a brilliant smile and all-overpowering awe. His favourite colony, always.

He was hot-tempered and easily got into fights, mostly with France in the olden days. Yet he remained that certain dignity, fitting one of noble ranks. He was a king and a conqueror, but all the same he was a rebel and an outcast.

Surprisingly shy, especially after his periods of ‘Splendid Isolation’. Expecting to be turned down from the get-go, which made him even more sarcastic and grumpy.

Behind his exterior of the gentleman, the pirate, the wizard and the hoodlum, lay a more sensitive side. The secrets no one cared to unveil. Only the stubborn ones got to know the real him, got to see behind all the biting remarks and gruff behaviouristics. The tiny little things they either found boring or had never expected from him.

England loved gardening. Found peace in his embroidery. Wept openly at fantasy novels and films. Enjoyed his Sunday morning stroll, after which he sent to baking under a joyful whistling tone, rain or no rain.

He was really sensitive about his eyebrows. Never showed it, but he took great care in trying to make them look less like exploded caterpillars. He tended to bite his nails, and always had to clip them after catching himself. He loved reading by candlelight, even though it was bad for his eyes.

Every Friday night he let himself indulge in old fantasies. Painted his hair green, put on some old piercings and took out his favourite guitar. Rum and music, that’s all he needed then.

When he had nightmares he came downstairs to make himself some tea with milk. He liked walking on the beach, feeling the hot sand slide between his toes. Not swimming, as he’d never been taught how.

He had bought a cottage on the more rural side of town, trying to find a moment’s rest in a world that was buzzing with energy, ever changing, not slowing down for anything.

Sometimes he just felt so tired…

It was on one such night that France came by. France, the one man who had taken the time to get to know him. All of him, every last single little titbit. The one who loved him, and whom he secretly loved back.

“Angleterre.”

England glanced over his shoulder. He had been standing in his kitchen, trying to bake some cake. But all of a sudden, without any warning or reason or rhyme, he’d stopped. Laid down his materials, gripped the kitchen sink, and just stared ahead. Whether it was melancholy he felt or depression, he did not know. All England could do was stand there, heart thumping in his throat, unable to move.

And he was still standing in that exact position now that France had entered the kitchen as well. The nation was holding a gigantic bouquet of dark red roses, which he laid down on the table. Instead of being shocked or panicking, France simply smiled as he walked towards his lover.

“Angleterre. It is all right. I am here for you.”

France gently pried his hands away from the sink and turned him around, embracing him lovingly. England blinked as he eased himself into the hug. He wasn’t sad, nor angry or afraid. Hadn’t spilled a single tear, and was just as surprised by his sudden lack of anything at all as anyone else would’ve been. But it did feel awfully nice to be held like this.

France lightly swayed him around, stroking his hair and placing a kiss on top of his head. His stubble tickled at England’s cheek as he stared wide-eyed at the other.

“Has the past taken hold of you, mon lapin?”

England slowly shook his head, still looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

“I… I don’t know. I simply don’t know, Francis. I just felt like stopping. Just like that. So I did.”

He shrugged, the absurdity of the situation beginning to dawn on him. Then he snorted.

“Oh, what in the Queen’s name am I even doing… I sound like I’m senile…”

France laughed breathlessly as the Brit buried his face in his chest, ears turning a nice embarrassed crimson.

“Have I lost my bloody mind?” he mumbled, France still swaying him around in that odd waltz of his.

“Do not worry too much about it, mon Angleterre. Sometimes we just need a moment’s rest, I suppose. The life of a nation can be terribly exhausting.”

The Frenchman guided the other towards the living room and there they settled down on the couch. France pulled the other into his lap, and began placing kisses all over his face.

“Do you always have to be this… affectionate?” England grumbled.

He didn’t even think about admitting he loved the attention. Loved being held, knowing France would always be there for him. He was the one constant thing in his life, the one person that had been there for as long as he could remember. The only one who understood, fully understood.

England often wondered how it had taken him so long to realize he loved France. True, he was still a little insecure about the whole love business, but to not even notice his own feelings? Now that was just silly.

“It’s not fair,” he sighed, closing his eyes.

“What is, mon cher?”

“This,” England answered, looking the Frenchman in the eye, azure locked with forest green.

“You always comforting me. Always there for me, even when I was such a bratty fool… I can never understand how you could keep loving me when I was so infuriatingly oblivious. You deserve to be loved too.”

They both blushed, and France blushed even harder when the Brit placed a small peck on his lips.

“Ah, but we have plenty of time to catch up, don’t we?” France asked, eyes twinkling with glee. “Now that you finally realize it, you can tell me you love me a thousand times! That is enough comfort for me.”

France laughed as the Brit hit him on his arm, but grew serious after that.

“Non. You _have_ been there for me, Angleterre. You think I would have loved you this much had you not? You were the one person I could always tell my complaints to, my doubts and sorrows. Sometimes you laughed, other times you called me names, but _you always listened_. Even when mocking me, you still listened. Never treated me like a fool, but someone of the same level. I truly cared for your opinion, still do. Hidden behind the snide remarks you were still able to slip in some advice. You visited when I was sick, even if only to tell me you didn’t want me to die because then who else would fight with you?”

England had gone quiet, fingers absentmindedly tangling themselves in wavy locks.

“You were the one I could talk to when my precious Jeanne d’Arc died. You are my rival, but more importantly, my equal. You have done so much for me, and you do not even realize it. More than be loved, I want you to let me love you. I am much more of a giver than a taker anyway. Do not worry about that, mon cher.”

England let out a heavy sigh, eyelids drooping.

“Fine, you win. Keep comforting me all you want, see if I care? But then you don’t get to whine when I’m grumpy again, I get to act like a spoiled child for at least once a month, and you can’t make jokes about my eyebrows or cooking.”

“As if any of that would ever happen,” France laughed.

England rolled his eyes. Because it was true, some things never changed. And him acting like a spoiled child? Please! That was America’s job, for heaven’s sake!

“All right, but I still feel like you’re giving me more than I’m giving you. So let’s make a deal. Once a month we’ll just come together and talk. No sex, no drinking. You just tell me about everything that’s on your mind, good and especially bad. And I’ll cook more, because you do that far too often.”

France whined in protest, but the Englishman continued.

“And… And I’ll try to do this more.”

“Do wha…”

France paused when England brought their faces close and kissed him. Slow and smooth, without any haste. When the green-eyed nation pulled away, he remained close. His breath ghosted over France’s lips as he let the words flow out, a barely audible whisper.

“Je t’aime, ma grenouille.”

France stilled for a moment, and then without a warning pounced him.

“Bloody hell…”

England cursed and France laughed, both nations toppling over and falling off the couch. Once they hit the ground France was all over him, kissing him breathless and touching wherever you could.

“Ah, Angleterre~ If you are going to say it like that every time, I take back my words. You can give me as much love as you wish.”

England made an obscene gesture, but soon joined in the delighted laughter of his lover. It felt good, laughing like this after all the heavy talk. England wasn’t just a simple single-minded being, after all. He was a man of many sides, and so was France.

France. The lover, flamboyance incarnated, the revolutionist, the father, the country of roses and la bonne vie and tragic history.

Where there was sentiment there was destined to be bickering and teasing. Where there was gentleness there was bound to be sex.

Like an old married couple they would continue on the journey of their lives, dancing that odd waltz no one else could possibly understand.

Destined to remain the one consistent thing, France for England, and England for France.

For better or for worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words:  
> Ma grenouille: My frog  
> La bonne vie: The good life


	13. If I asked, would you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America is one for doing romantic and dramatic things, and now he's gotten something very special into his head.

America had always been one for big, romantic gestures. Spelling your lover’s name out in the sky, filling their house to the brim with gifts and flowers and chocolate, making a song with their name in it and play it on the radio, declaring your undying love for them in front of the whole world.

He knew Russia was more intimate, less open in his affection. His love showed through little gestures, at home where no one else could witness them. Gently kiss him awake, make him pancakes in the shape of hearts or sunflowers, make their bed and leave small gifts on his pillow, watch horror movies just so they could cuddle it out afterwards, give him his coat when America was cold, allow him to sleep those five minutes extra just so they could enjoy each other’s warmth.

America knew that, so he’d tried to keep his big gestures at a minimum so as not to embarrass the tall nation. The moment Russia let him wear his scarf in public just because he’d sneezed though, that’s when plans for something nicely theatrical began forming.

“Say, big guy. What are your opinions on marriage?”

“Eh?”

Russia looked up from his needlework, eyebrows drawn together in a confused frown.

“What do you mean dorogoy?”

“You know, marriage. You think it’s a good thing or a bad thing?”

The Russian laid his work aside and hummed in thought, contemplating the idea.

“Marriage is a wonderful thing, da? The ultimate act of love between a man and a woman. If it does not go to waste afterwards, of course.”

America leant forward, sucking in a deep breath.

“Then what about gay marriage?”

Russia’s mouth formed a perfectly round “Oh.” He folded his hands, looking the other solemnly in the eye.

“It is… complicated. On one hand I cannot fully agree with it because of my boss and people’s views and the law in my country. On the other hand, I do not see love between two men or two women as different from love between a man and a woman, so in that way they should be able to marry too. Still…”

He made vague gestures with his hands, trying to find the right words.

“I… I do not understand much about love. Have only discovered it a short time ago.”

He sent a fond look at the American, which was bashfully returned.

“So I do not think I should deserve to be judging on such important matters. Especially since I am a nation before a man. Marriages between our kind are not the same, they are purely for political reasons.”

“There are some of us who marry for emotional reasons as well,” America interrupted. “Private marriages, marriages between two people instead of alliances or treaties. Hungary and Austria married because they love each other. So did Finland and Sweden. And I’m one hundred percent sure that if Veneziano wasn’t such an airhead and Germany such a scaredy-cat, those two would be married by now as well.”

The Russian nodded, still frowning.

“Da, I am aware of that. And I wish them all the happiness they can get.”

“Even when it’s two people of the same gender?”

“If they love each other, yes. I already told you. It might not be legal in my country, but if two men or two women want to get married in countries where it is allowed, who am I to make objections? It is my bosses who create the laws, not me. All we nations are good for is giving advice and hoping it will be taken. Not that I want to talk with my boss about gay marriage right now…”

Russia looked up, smiling apologetically. His smile lessened when he saw the fierce look in the other’s eyes.

“…Why are you asking all this, Alfred?”

To his greatest surprise, the sunny blond instantly coloured a dark red. The blush began by his ears and rapidly spread to his cheeks and neck, making the blue in his eyes stand out more.

“Oh… No reason, really. Just kinda popped up in my mind, and figured I’d ask.”

“So what are your thoughts on it, podsolnechnik?” the Slavic nation asked, smile returning.

America grew uncharacteristically quiet and serious.

“I think love is the most beautiful thing on the world and should be celebrated each and every single day. It’s the perfect happy ending, you know? Everybody craves for it, and they can only be complete when they find it. What’s a hero without his leading lady? Or leading guy, or whatevs. I’ve been married before, and I can tell you it’s the best fucking thing in the world.”

Russia looked at him with a gasp, stupefaction visible on his face.

“You have? When?”

America looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them on the surface of the table. For once he wasn’t the excitable ADD teenager who’d drunk a bit too much caffeine. He finally looked like a man who had lived for more than 200 years, tired of having seen so much war and pain.

“Remember that one time I told you about that thing with me and Vietnam at China’s house? Yeah, I lied. It wasn’t just a fling or a one-night stand. You can’t tell this to anybody, but Vietnam and I were secretly married back then. It didn’t last long, and the break-up wasn’t exactly nice. But I can tell you this, those months were some of the best of my life.”

Russia carefully pried one of America’s hands from the table and brought it to his lips, leaving a feathery kiss on callused knuckles.

“Why are you telling me all this, little one?” he whispered, distressed to see the wry and barely hidden hurt on his lover’s face.

“I… Ivan, I…”

He swallowed, then cast his eyes downwards.

“…Forget it. It’s no big deal. I…”

America pulled his hand back, trembling as he quickly raised from his seat.

“It’s really nothing, big guy. Thank you for… for listening. And for answering my question.”

Before the Russian could rise as well, America had already left the room.

_‘What on earth was that all about Fedya?’_

* * *

Russia and France were both seated at a table on a café terrace in Paris. These last few days, the conversation with America kept spinning through his head. Though every time he tried asking the blue-eyed nation about it, he’d laughed it off and quickly moved on to another topic. Exasperated, Russia had contacted France, the one nation he knew was willing to help him with his relationship.

“So tell me, Russie. Has my talk about the birds and the bees helped you in the bedroom?”

Russia flushed an embarrassed red at the blunt question. Of course, he should have expected these kinds of questions now that he was alone with the Frenchman. It was France who had taught him about sex in the first place, after all.

“I would rather not talk about that,” Russia admitted, taking a quick sip of coffee.

“Ah, so it did help?”

“Frantisya!” the Russian hissed, uncomfortably squirming under the other’s knowing mien.

It had been quite a long time since he and France had talked like this. In private, no politics or war strategies involved. Also no England or America to distract them, just France and Russia. It reminded him of the time when Peter and Catherine were still alive, when France had looked so exotic and charming in his young eyes. He still did, but after outgrowing him France had learnt not to mess around with the winter nation. Their friendship had watered, and soon they were reduced to colleagues. It was only recently that the Frenchman started feeling at ease around him again. And of course, he immediately had to bring up that extraordinarily embarrassing talk.

“That is not what I wanted to talk about today,” Russia huffed, sending the other an icy glare.

France chuckled anxiously, flagging the waiter for another café au lait.

“Of course, Ivan.” (He had to use his human name now that they were around his citizens.) “Feel free to tell me all your troubles and doubts, chéri.”

Russia got right to the point, nervously toying with his scarf.

“It is about Alfred. He wanted to know my opinion on gay marriage. I think he wanted to say something else as well, but I do not know what. He does not want to talk about it now.”

France gaped open-mouthed at his companion, cup raised halfway and now frozen in the air.

“So?” Russia asked, impatient. “What do you think about it?”

France carefully set his cup back down and grasped the other’s hands, ignoring the chill that travelled down his spine at their touch.

“Ivan, mon ami. Is it true? Did he really ask you about that? In those words?”

“Da…” Russia said, feeling a bit uncomfortable having the other hold his hands. He wasn’t used to people touching him a lot, other than America and his sisters sometimes.

“What else did he say?”

“Nothing much… He just wanted to know my opinion, and then told me what he thinks about it. He got really serious when talking about marriage, and then sad… But when I asked him why he wanted to talk about this topic, he did not want to tell me. So now I am confused.”

“And you really have no clue?” the nation asked, voice audibly astonished.

“Nyet. If I had I would not have come to you, da?” he answered gruffly, aura becoming a bit more menacing. He did not want France to hold his hand anymore, nor did he want to other to think he was stupid. He just wanted some answers, was that too much to ask for?

France quickly retracted when he saw the expression on the other’s face, and allowed his lips to twitch up in a smile.

“Russie. Is it not obvious? Petit Amérique wants to ask you a question.”

“What question?”

“ _The_ question, chéri. The one question, the most important there exists.”

“I… I do not understand,” Russia sighed, trying and failing to figure out the puzzle.

France rolled his eyes, still smiling. Of course, he should be more precise. The Russian had always been a bit oblivious when it came to sex and relationships.

“ _Russie_. He wants to ask you to marry him.”

The ashen blond blinked, thought processes abruptly coming to a halt.

…What?

“Could you repeat that?” he asked, voice a tat bit high-pitched and shrill.

The Frenchman smiled gently. “He wants to marry you. Or he is at least considering it.”

Russia blinked. Then he went white like a ghost, all the blood pouring to his cheeks.

“E-eh? Y-you mean… Alfred- he… Eh??????”

France laughed as Russia let out some flustered noises, English momentarily failing him.

“It was bound to happen, hein? Little Alfred is a romantic soul, after all. I should know~”

“But, but…” Russia buried his face in his scarf, thoughts shooting through his head at lightning speed.

America wanted to marry him? Him, he, Russia??? But how? Why? True, they were very much in love with each other and their relationship was going well at the moment, but marriage? Russia hadn’t thought about that for a single moment. Not only because he’d never been in a relationship before (let alone married, married with a guy at that, married married _married_!), but because they had only been together for little under a year. Didn’t marriage take a lot of consideration? America couldn’t possibly be serious about this…

“I have to talk to him,” Russia said in a hurried voice, downing his coffee in one go and rising from his seat. Before he could storm off to the airport though, France grabbed his sleeve.

“Ivan. Please consider his feelings while talking to him. Do not be blunt. Alfred might be over 200, he is still a young spirit. He will not take it lightly if you do not handle this with care.”

There was also a flash of warning in those azure eyes, the nation of love not tolerating it when someone’s feelings regarding marriage got crushed.

Russia held his gaze for a short while, worry and confusion oozing from the odd way in which he held his head and bit his lip.

“The flight there will take several hours. Use that time wisely, mon ami.”

The Slavic nation nodded briskly, before turning around and leaving.

‘ _I do not know what to think, dorogoy…’_

* * *

Russia was staring at his lover’s sleeping face. They hadn’t talked about it yet, America pulling him to his bedroom as soon as he’d showed up at his apartment in Boston, Massachusetts. He had made him forget about the matter for a couple of hours, but now it was there again, haunting him, swirling around in messy whirlpools.

“What are you thinking about?”

Russia looked up, startled. He could see those vivid blue eyes trained on his face even in the dark of the room.

“…I will tell you tomorrow, dorogoy. Go back to sleep.”

“Nuh uh. You’re worrying about something. I can tell. And I ain’t going back to sleep until you tell me.”

Russia caught his hand and brought it to his lips, placing a small kiss on the palm.

“…All right then. But it is something serious. About us.”

America paused before slowly sitting up, pulling the other against the pillows with him. He turned on the light so he could have a better look at the ashen blond, eyebrows scrunched together in a way that didn’t suit him at all.

“What about us, big guy?”

Russia fiddled with the blanket scarcely covering his legs and lower regions. He took in a huge breath and focussed his eyes upon the younger’s face.

“It is about that talk we had, several weeks ago. You know. The one about marriage.”

America seemed to tense, making Russia cringe. He worried his lower lip, thinking how best to voice his thoughts regarding the topic.

“You… There was something you wanted to ask, but you ended up not telling me. I-“

“It was nothing, okay?” America cut him off, voice sharp and eyes big. “Just forget that talk, forget I ever said anything-“

“Alfred.”

The blond flinched back, casting his eyes down. Russia sighed and placed a hand under his chin, forcing his gaze back up. He was unable to keep the blush from his face as he continued speaking.

“You know I love you, da? With all my heart. Yet I cannot help but wonder… Is that really what you want?”

America’s expression instantly turned hard and determined, blue flashing in a way only his eyes could.

“What, you mean you don’t?”

Russia didn’t allow him to pull back, gripping his shoulder to keep him from turning away.

“Ah, please. Do not be so rash. I shall explain myself.”

He waited for America to give a short shrug, indicating he could continue.

“You are still very young. I know, you said you were already married with Vietnam at one point, but that was different. First of all, she was a girl-“

“Gay marriage is legal in many states nowadays,” America interrupted.

Russia smiled softly, his eyes sad.

“But it is not in Russian Federation.”

“Doesn’t matter. We could just do it here, your boss doesn’t even need to know, I-“

“Please, Fedya. That is not the only thing. We have not been together for that long. It makes me wonder if this is not too soon to make such important decisions-“

“It isn’t. I love you more than I’ve ever loved someone, guy or girl. I want to spend the rest of forever with you Vanya.”

Russia couldn’t retaliate for a moment, mouth opening and closing without any sounds leaving him and face redder than a fire truck.

“I-I… A-are you sure-?”

“Yes I am.” His tone left no place for doubt.

“…All right then… But still, that does not mean you should-“

“What do you have against marriage?” America asked, voice loud in the quiet room as he grabbed the other’s arm and yanked him forward. Russia yelped as the smaller nation brought their faces close

“I love you, and you love me. We have the means to do it. So what’s stopping you?”

Russia fidgeted nervously under his gaze, unable to look right into those almost eye-blinding jewels.

“I… I know you love me, and you love romance and drama, but… I-I have absolutely no experience with any of this…” His voice had gone quiet, and America had to strain his ears to keep listening to his mumbling. “It is not a matter of me not wanting to, but I do not think I could… I-I have no idea what would be expected of me, or…”

Without warning, America yanked him up and connected their lips into a short yet powerful kiss. Russia was taken by surprise, the heat on his face reaching such high degrees it nearly burnt holes into the skin.

“So it’s self-doubt? Nothing more?”

Russia shrugged weakly, playing with a little fluff that was lying on top of the mattress.

“Ivan, look at me.”

Russia slowly let his gaze wander up, surprised to see the other blushing just as fiercely as he was.

“You, you mean that…”

The blond cleared his throat, as if trying to swallow the awkwardness away.

“Just to be clear on this. We both know we love each other. You know I’m not gonna leave you. And I’m asking you now if you see any problems with my idea of doing it in the states.”

Russia shrugged.

“I suppose not… Private marriage has nothing to do with politics, so I suppose it could be done that way…”

America blushed even harder, entire figure trembling for some reason.

“Okay. I have a very important question for you. Does all of this mean, that if I asked you to marry me, you- you would say yes?”

Russia hesitantly parted his lips, but didn’t speak. America leant in, some sort of very deep emotion flashing in his eyes.

“I’m not asking you right now, mind you. The mood’s not exactly right after all that deep shit, and I’m more for doing it the right way… But would you? If I asked, would you?”

_‘Would I?’_

The ashen blond looked up shyly, a ray of moonlight reflecting from his shining lavender orbs. His naked body seemed so fragile at that moment, broad shoulders hunched up and curled inwards, hands protectively shuffling around in front of his stomach. He was the tallest nation together with Sweden, could intimidate anyone with just a smile or a chuckle. There were scars all over him, most prominent on his ragged neck and over the area covering his heart. He had seen war, death, crime, insanity, all things bad one could think of.

And that bear of a man looked as shy as a teenage girl right then.

“D-da… If you were to ask me, I would say yes, sunflower.”

America’s entire face lit up as a huge grin split it in two, and he leapt forward to kiss his lover breathless.

“Oh my God Ivan you don’t even know how happy that makes me, you can expect something really big when I do ask you but now I just want to pick up where we left off before you woke me up because damn girl you make me happier than anything-“

Russia laughed joyfully, and as he saw the younger nation excited like a little puppy, he couldn’t help but feel a wave of warmth flourish in his gut.

Yes, he had made the right decision. Seeing America this happy was anything he could ever hope for and more. If marriage was what it took, he would gladly jump that hurdle. And since America hadn’t asked him right away, he still had time to get used to the idea.

In all his years, centuries even, of being alive, he never would have expected someone wanting to propose to him. Yet if felt so incredibly right saying yes, that right now, he couldn’t have imagined it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys want me to, I can try to write out the story of France teaching Russia about sex. They didn’t do anything, it was just having The Talk. But I think it could be quite hilarious to see little Vanya’s reactions to hearing such things for the first time, especially from someone like France.
> 
> Do not expect America’s proposal anytime soon. For now they’re happy knowing the answer would have been yes, and decide to let it rest for the time being. And he wants to wait until Russia has more or less forgotten about it, so it will come as an even bigger surprise when he’s finally planned out how he’s going to do it. I also just don’t want them marrying yet, because they haven’t been together that long (especially seeing as they’re both a couple of hundreds of years old), and because it feels like something to do at the end of a story (which we are far from reaching). I might write it someday, just not now.
> 
> Words:  
> Café au lait: Coffee with milk  
> Hein: Something like ‘eh’


	14. You don't know me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think some real bonding time with Belarus is long overdue.

Belarus was ill. She was sporting a high fever and was bedridden at least until the next day. No one had time to come check up on her; everyone had meetings that day. So of course, since America considered himself part of the family now, he had finally offered to go look after the girl.

He had never been to the country before. She had been to his for political reasons, but never the other way around. Back when she was still his sort of little sister (1), he wouldn’t have dreamt of ever seeing her house. And yet here he was. Standing in front of the house of his now sort of sister-in-law.

The house had a rather quaint and rural feel to it, as America knew that the Belarussian took high value in agriculture. He wondered briefly what he would find in there, before pulling out the spare key Russia had given to him.

 _‘Well, here goes nothing,’_ he thought, before jamming the key in the lock and twisting it around.

The house was eerily quiet once he stepped inside. It was cold and empty, as if no one lived here. Wait a minute… This wasn’t a haunted mansion, right?!

“Brat?” he could hear a weak voice calling from upstairs.

Gripping the strap of his rucksack that much tighter, he let himself be led by the sound of it. The stairs creaked under his feet, and he swallowed when the door to Belarus’ bedroom became visible. America knew the girl wasn’t exactly fond of him, but he was going to help her whether she liked it or not. He took in a deep breath before swinging the door open and stepping inside. Then he paused.

Belarus’ room was nothing like what he would have expected. He had somehow thought it would look like some kind of torture dungeon, what with the woman’s affinity for knives and other sharp things. But in reality her bedroom looked oddly… normal. A king-sized bed, old-fashioned wallpaper, a closet and bookshelf, some old photographs from during the USSR hanging from the wall, and for some reason, a cardboard box standing in the corner.

A low and venomous hiss warned him that she knew he was here.

“What are you doing here?!” the woman growled, sending him a furious leer from where she lay curled up in her blankets. There were bags under her eyes and droplets of sweat could be seen on her pale cheeks and upper lip. This woman did not look healthy, not at all.

America dropped his rucksack onto the ground and smiled at her.

“I came to see how you’re doing, of course. No one should be left alone when they’re sick.”

“Go away. I did not invite you here,” Belarus said curtly, narrowing her eyes at him.

Instead of doing what he was told, America simply pulled up a chair and sat down beside her bed.

“Nah. I think I’ll stay. You look like a living corpse, Natalia dear.”

“And do not call me dear!” she hissed, apparently dead-set on hating every fibre of the other’s being.

America sighed.

“Come on, stop being so stubborn. I really only came with the best of intentions.”

“Like you came with the best intentions when you wanted to save the people of Vietnam?” she growled.

…Okay, he had to admit that stung a little. He knew fully well not all of his heroic interventions had been fully appreciated. He also knew it wasn’t his decision to start killing the innocent, but his bosses’. Still… it definitely brought back painful memories.

“No. That’s in the past. I care about you, believe it or not. You might be a bit crazy, but you’re still Ivan’s sister.”

Belarus didn’t look like she believed him one single bit. But when she opened her mouth to tell him just that, she was caught in a sudden coughing fit.

“Whoa, you okay?”

He moved in to touch her, but the woman slapped angrily at his hand.

“Do not touch me! I can take care of myself, I do not need you, you filthy swine!”

America rolled his eyes, got up, and walked over to the sink with a clean handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. He wet the thing under some ice cold water, before walking back to the bed. Then, ignoring all the protests and angry hissing, he began dabbing her face with it to get rid of the sweat.

Belarus stilled, staring at him with suspicious little slits for eyes. Waiting for him to strike, expecting him to do so. When nothing happened, she finally allowed herself to enjoy the cool fabric against her forehead.

“…Why are you doing this, khyuesos’?”

“Like I said. You’re Ivan’s little sister. His family. And family is to be taken care of. England always looked after me when I was little and sick, so now it’s time for me to do the same to someone else. I’m not gonna attack you or anything, I’ll just stay here and make sure you get better. Okay?”

Belarus studied his face for any signs he was lying, the dark blue of her eyes calculating and still a bit suspicious. Then, with a sigh, she let herself slump back onto her pillow, letting the other dab at her face.

“If anything happens to me, brother will kill you,” she muttered on a note of finality.

“Of course,” America answered, smile audible in his voice.

* * *

“The thighbone is the strongest bone in a human body.”

“Huh?”

America glanced up from the comic book he’d been leafing through, finding Belarus staring at him in a creepy way.

“…Okay?”

“It is hollow, yet it is the strongest bone,” she persisted, not blinking as she waited for… for what? Some kind of sign?

“…That’s nice.”

She nodded, before closing her eyes again. America looked at her with a curious expression.

“Why did you say that?”

“Why did I say what?” came her soft voice.

“The bone stuff.”

She shrugged.

“Is little fact I read somewhere. I thought it to be interesting. A hollow bone being the strongest point of support in such a fragile body… Humans are fascinating creatures.”

America grinned, heart thumping happily when he realized Belarus was talking to him, just talking. What she was saying was a little weird perhaps, but it didn’t involve the love for her big brother or the want to kill something.

“What else do you know?”

She opened her eyes again, frowning.

“You… You want to hear what I know?”

He nodded excitedly, moving closer to her bed.

“Yeah. Like, have you studied science or nature or anything?”

“There are waterfalls underwater,” she immediately said, “the largest of which is located between Greenland and Iceland.”

America’s eyes lit up, his smile growing.

“I didn’t know you knew stuff like that!”

“Are you calling me stupid?” she asked in a dry voice.

“No, it’s just that we never really talked. Okay, what else? Anything about space?”

“It rains diamonds on Neptune and Uranus.”

“I know right? That’s just totally awesome-“

Before he could ask her anything else, Belarus suddenly sat up straight in her bed, a hand slapped over her mouth.

“What’s wrong?” the young nation asked, suddenly worried for her well-being.

She went very pale, eyes squeezed shut, and in an instant he knew what was going to happen. Had done it often enough when he was sick as a child.

Without further ado he scooped the woman up in his arms, only now realizing how light she weighed (every other time he could have felt her weight, she was struggling against him so furiously he could only feel the pure muscles in her arms and legs). Belarus didn’t react other than giving a violet twitch at being picked up so suddenly, but there were more important things keeping her busy right now.

“Which room?” America asked, as soon as he ran into the hallway.

She pointed, her hand trembling as she was giving everything in her might to keep it in. America sped off, slamming the door open with such force it caused a tremor to rip through the house (whoops), before placing the woman next to the toilet. Without further ado she bent over and began throwing up. America quietly held her silky hair out of her face, not knowing how she would react had it been ruined like that. He considered stroking her back, but there was such a thing as giving too much affection. Belarus wasn’t his girlfriend or sister, nor did she like him. But he had to admit he had never seen her this vulnerable before.

When she had finally emptied her upset stomach, America offered her a glass of water which she begrudgingly accepted. She didn’t let him carry her back to the bed, but she did cling onto his arm when her legs were a little wobbly (something she would have never done had she not felt so miserable).

America was slowly starting to realize that Russia had been right, that one time he said there was much more to his little sister than meets the eye. Yes, she might have been extremely violent and a bit (a lot) creepy when it came to her brother, but right now she didn’t seem all that bad…

* * *

“Give me the phone.”

“Who are you gonna call? Oh, the ghostbusters? Wait, there aren’t any real ghosts in here, are there?”

Belarus chuckled softly, already having made fun of America when he shrieked like a little girl when a strange sound reverberated from somewhere in the house.

“Nyet. Poland.”

“Why are you calling Poland?” he asked, handing her the device.

She shook her head, dialling his number. They both waited for it to go over, America curious and Belarus with an emotionless expression.

“Hello? Who is it?”

America waited for her to say something, but instead she just let the phone lay limply in her hand. He shot her a confused glance, but the woman shook her head.

“Hello? Anyone there? Okay, this is like, not another of those prank calls is it?”

Belarus tilted her head, a rare smile of amusement creeping onto her delicate face. America’s mouth flapped open.

Was she… Was Belarus… Was she prank-calling someone?

“Okay, I had it with you! I know it’s you Natalia! Like, seriously! This is so not cool, oh my God!”

Her smile grew, and she finally brought the phone to her lips. Instead of speaking however, she simply let out a breath into the receiver.

“That does it!” came Poland’s shriek. “I am so not going to pick up when you call anymore! For real this time!”

And with that the call was ended. America finally let out the barking laugh he’d been holding in, and even Belarus chuckled quietly.

“I didn’t know you had a sense of humor! You do this often?”

She shrugged, placing the phone back beside her.

“Sometimes. When I am bored.”

She sighed, letting her gaze wander around the room. Then suddenly, without warning, “Do you have a big penis?”

America blinked, before his face made a perfect imitation of a flustered boiled lobster.

“Wha-what?! Why would you wanna know?”

“There must be some reason brother likes you that much. I was thinking, perhaps you have a big cock?”

“Different topic!” he peeped, staring at her with a look of pure and utter horror.

Belarus rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath.

“Nekotoryye lyudi ne imeyut chuvstvo yumora.”

America tried to distract her from such disturbing thoughts by pointing at the box in the corner of her room.

“Why do you have that?”

“Why do I…”

Her gaze followed his outstretched hand, resting on the box.

“I am packing for something.”

“For what?”

But she didn’t elaborate.

America learnt quite a lot about the strange woman that day. She was fond of rock music and potatoes, told a story about how the shadow of the moon was there because someone was imprisoned there for a crime or something, and even told him the name of Paris Hilton’s dog. She also laughed at him because of his fear of ghosts, won a game of poker, and hit him up the head at 8 PM, telling him with a straight face that this hour meant “torture.”

When he asked her whether or not she liked him more now, she answered with a rigid “no”, but America couldn’t help but notice her smile after he told the girl a lame joke.

If only things could be like this when she wasn’t sick, the relationship between her and her brother could be so much better…

* * *

Russia crept up the stairs. It was already very late in the evening, and he hoped sincerely his sister had gone to sleep. He promised America to pick him up after spending the day here, and he was going to keep that promise.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of Belarus. He loved her, he truly did.

But when she had another one of her episodes, she was truly the devil on earth.

“Alfred?” he asked softly, peeking inside his sister’s bedroom. What he found there made him pause.

Not only was Belarus fast asleep, America was as well. A book lay open on the bed, America splayed over the covers as if he had been reading it to her before bedtime. He was snoring lightly, a trail of drool escaping his mouth. And Belarus looked so at peace, it made his heart fill with love.

Russia tip-toed over to the bed, tucking his sister in a little better and placing a soft and hesitant kiss on her cheek.

“Spokojnoj noči, sestra.”

He lifted his lover up gently, sending one last look at the sleeping beauty.

If only she could always be like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) After the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991, America helped Belarus distance herself from Russia. Relationships soon turned sour however, due to Belarus being accused of violating the human rights.
> 
> Words:  
> Brat: Brother  
> Nekotoryye lyudi ne imeyut chuvstvo yumora: Some people have no sense of humour  
> Spokojnoj noči, sestra: Goodnight, sister


	15. The Birds and The Bees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France tries to give Russia The Talk, while acting like... well, France. Takes place during the time the Romanovs were alive.

Russia hurried down the hallway on socked feet, heart thumping in his throat and cheeks tainted a permanent red.

That had not just happened. That had _not_ just happened. THAT HAD NOT JUST HAPPENED.

“Russie!”

The teenage nation yelped when someone captured him by the wrist, easily spinning his clumsily out-of-proportioned body around. His first reaction was to attack whoever was assaulting him, self-defence mechanisms always set on maximum capacity, but once he saw who it was he relaxed. Well, for the most part, since he was still quite shaken by what had happened prior to these events.

France gave him a gentle smile, though his eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Why are you in such a hurry, mon cher?” he purred, and Russia had to take a moment to translate the silky French to his mother tongue.

“Ah- nothing,” he quickly said, the words awkwardly stumbling out of his mouth. France’s smile only widened, easily seeing through the obvious lie. That, and the younger nation was still very red in the face, a little out of breath due to his running, and his hands kept playing restlessly with the neatly washed edges of his favourite scarf.

France gave a soft pull at the still captured wrist, flicking his head towards the guestroom in which he resided.

“Come, Russie. You can tell me what’s wrong.”

“Ah, nyet, I-“

But France easily pulled him along, the Russian finally admitting defeat and following his senior with hanging head. If anyone could help him it had to be France, him being a fellow nation and all. Not that he fully trusted the foreigner, but the relationship with France was as close to friendship as you could get without fully opening up.

They entered the room and sat down on the four-poster bed, Russia immediately pulling his knees close to him and curling up in a protective ball.

“Tell me, mon cher. What happened to make you this upset?”

Russia bit restlessly on his knuckle, eyes shifting away from the flamboyant westerner seated next to him. He wasn’t good with showing his emotions, especially not with talking about them. And definitely not when the cause of his distress were such… intimate acts.

“I… I had to discuss something with Pyotr,” he began, voice hesitant and reluctant. (1)

France nodded approvingly, giving a slight flick of the hand to encourage the boy to continue his story. Russia tucked his nose into his scarf, blush intensifying just a tad.

“But he was… you see, he-“

A series of unintelligible noises escaped his mouth. France let out a soft gasp before his smile turned into a smirk, eyelids dropping just enough to change his expression from comforting to understanding.

“And your beloved czar was a bit busy.”

The younger nation looked about ready to faint after that statement, steam practically pouring out of his ears and eyes twirling. His fingers twitched into the fabric of his scarf, pulling and twisting and scratching.

“I, he, ya ne znayu-“

France’s eyes widened when he was hit with the sudden realization that Russia, his young friend, was in fact-

“You are still untouched?”

Russia finally looked at him, beautiful violet eyes curious and fine eyebrows scrunched together.

“Untouched…? What does that mean?”

France’s grin turned all-out devilish, sending a chill down the other’s spine.

“Ah, but I am talking about l’amour of course! The wonders of adult life! Tell me Russie, you must have touched yourself.”

“Touched…?”

Azure eyes shot down, and when Russia followed his gaze he turned perfectly scarlet.

“What are you talking about?!” he peeped, legs coming together on their own accord. “That is indecent!”

France laughed a joyous laugh, firmly planting a hand on the younger’s shoulder.

“Non, not indecent at all! It is simply a part of nature! But from your reaction I can gather that you are indeed a virgin?”

“How did we get on this topic?!” Russia screeched, squirming under the hand keeping him rooted on the spot.

France finally let go, got up and twirled around in an odd fashion. He placed his hands on his hips and swayed them to the side, laughing that strange laugh of his Russia had always found so exotic.

“My my, this simply won’t do! Just sit right there, mon ami, and I will enlighten you of the wonders of sex.”

“I am not sure I want to be enlightened…” Russia stuttered, gulping and hiding further into his scarf.

France wadded a finger at him, smirk reaching its maximum level.

“Ah, chéri. You will be glad once we are done.”

* * *

“No more! No more!”

Russia lay trembling on the bed, hands clasped firmly over his ears as France still twirled around the room.

“And then you ram into BEEP, but not too fierce, because their comfort should always be the first thing on your mind. But do not worry mon cher, if you follow my advice your partner will be mewling with pleasure at that point, weakly clutching the blankets between their fingers as they drool and pant and scream for more-“

The Frenchman immediately cut himself off once he saw the look the other sported. Russia rose from the bed, seemingly much taller despite having only just caught up to France’s height. His darkened jewels were narrowed with discomfort and a strange purple aura wavered around his figure.

“R-Russie?” France yelped, not recognizing the shy boy he had made acquaintance with.

“You will stop now, or I shall have to take drastic measures.”

A strange kol’ing sound escaped his lips, body trembling with awkward discomfort and cheeks still flushed red.

France gulped, nodded, and tried a shaky smile.

In a flash the other’s mood changed again, going back to incredibly embarrassed. He made a small peeping sound, pushed past his guest and sprinted off to his own room. France was left behind to rethink his life, and he knew better than to ever make Russia uncomfortable again now.

Needless to say, the young country didn’t want to talk to his guest for a full three days, and it would have been longer had his czar not urged him into conversation.

But the purest part of him was forever gone after that particular visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Peter the Great in Russian is Pyotr Alexeyevich Romanov.
> 
> Words:  
> Mon cher: My dear  
> Ya ne znayu: I don’t know  
> L’amour: Love  
> Chéri: Dear


	16. Big Brother France

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France prides himself in being a big brother to the world, be even he needs a listening ear sometimes.

France prided himself in acting as some sort of big brother to the other nations, what with him being one of the older ones and all. They often came to him for advice or comfort – or he came to them if they were too stubborn to accept his help – and he tried to aide them to the best of his abilities. But of course, when everyone came at once, his life could be quite exhausting.

"Fraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaance!" whined an obnoxiously loud voice at the other end of the line.

"Oui oui, je sais," he sighed, rubbing his forehead. America had been pestering him for over an hour now, blabbering about nonsensical matters without revealing the true intentions of his call.

"But if I build a robot and use that I'm sure he'll notice, plus the fact that I don't know if Tony can get it done that fast, but maybe he'll be distracted by-"

"Alfred."

America immediately stopped talking at hearing his first name, the word having extra effect since France preferred calling everyone by the French variant of their country name.

"What did you do?"

A moment of silence, and he could hear America shuffling around.

"I uh… I may or may not have kinda broken his faucet in half."

The line stayed silent for another few moments, France struggling not to burst into laughter.

"Can't you just get him a new one?"

"No way dude! He'll notice right away, and I'm absolutely positive he'll get pissed at me! This is the Magic Metal Pipe of Pain we're talking about. Not just any toy or accessory, but THE Magic Metal Pipe of Pain!"

"Oui, I heard you the first time," France chuckled. "Are you sure you can't just fix it with your superhuman powers?"

"No way, he'll notice that as well! WhatdoIdowhatdoIdowhatdoIdowhatdoIdowhatdoIdo-"

"Alfred, calm down. Think. He loves you, right?"

America took in a deep breath before hesitantly acknowledging that fact as true.

"Don't you think he sees you as more important than his pipe? If you get him a new one, perhaps he'll be incredibly happy since it came from his beloved!"

"Huh… You really think that'll work?"

"Of course. You two have been through worse."

He wisely didn't mention the 'accident' America had called him for last time.

"Maybe…"

"Ah, I have to leave now. Someone else is calling. Just get him that new faucet, I am sure everything will be fine."

And without waiting for a reply, he ended the call.

Everything would not be fine. But he didn't need to further worry the American nation.

France waited for the new called to ring again before raising his phone to his ear.

"Bonjour, who is this?"

"Frantsiya, I need your help! I accidentally broke Alfred's game system!"

France rubbed his temples. First America, now Russia? Those two were really two of a kind.

"Buy him a new one, he loves you more than his games. Hang on, I have a new caller."

"Wait-"

Without further ado, France ended this call as well. What was it with everyone wanting to call at exactly the same moment? True, he had charms, but he wasn't always that popular.

After telling Prussia that of course Hungary would hit him with her favourite frying pan when she lifted up her skirt and telling Spain he didn't have time for a fiesta, he finally got a moment's rest.

Taking the opportunity to digest a glass of his favourite red wine and eat some baguette with camembert, he glanced a bit forlornly at the pile of paperwork still waiting for him. He still had a couple of days to file them in, but France liked getting such things done as fast as possible so he could go do more fun things afterwards. Constantly having work on your mind took the joy out of life for sure.

But alas, today he wouldn't be allowed any time to work. As soon as his sober meal was finished, he got another call from a very displeased Russia. Apologizing over and over, nearly pleading for his life when he heard that familiar "kolkolkol", he vowed to remember next time NOT to hang up on Russia if he wanted to live.

Then he got a call from his boss, reminding him of the pile of paperwork that was still waiting, then it was Canada's turn to ask what exactly the relationship was between Prussia and Hungary,… And before he knew it it was already eight pm and he was absolutely exhausted.

France was lying face-first on his couch when someone rung the bell. He moaned pathetically. True, he loved giving advice and helping others, but couldn't they leave him be for one measly second? He was tired, drained, haven't even had diner.

He dragged his ass to the front door and reluctantly opened it, eyebrows shooting up in surprise when he saw his favourite Englishman fuming on his doorstep.

"And where do you think you've been?" England snarled, expression stuck on an angry scowl.

"Where have I… What are you talking about, chéri?"

"Don't pretend you don't know," England snapped, arms crossed and foot violently tapping the ground. "You know perfectly well you were supposed to come over for dinner tonight. I even made reservations at that one restaurant you liked so well."

Diner- Ah shit. He had forgotten all about that, what with all the calls and everything on his mind.

England instantly stopped frowning when France's eyes got watery.

"Francis? What's wrong?" he asked, voice laden with alarm and concern.

France shook his head, biting his lip. He never cried. Not real tears anyway. Fake ones, theatrical ones, yes. But usually he just drowned his sorrow in wine, complained to his friends until all the sadness was gone, wrote it down in poems or simply locked it away. But the exhaustion was too much.

"I'm terribly sorry Arthur, I didn't mean to forget," he babbled, grasping the blond by his sleeves as if England would disappear otherwise. "It's just, everyone has been calling me with their troubles, and I lost track of time, and now I'm just so tired…"

England's expression got something determined, eyes glinting a near magical green.

"Come here."

He grabbed France by the wrist, closed the door behind him, and dragged him over to the couch. There he left him for a moment, and France dried his tears while he heard England move things in his kitchen. He sincerely hoped the Brit wouldn't try to cook anything for him, he was certain he couldn't handle that tonight.

But when his loved-one returned, it was with a damping mug of tea. England sat down on the couch next to France, awkwardly pushed him into a lying position and placed the other's head in his lap.

"Now tell me about your own problems," he sighed, looking down at France with hooded eyes.

The Frenchman blinked, a rosy blush rising to his cheeks.

"Angleterre, you don't have to-"

"It's good that you try to help those who ask you," England interrupted, "that's what a true gentleman would do. But if you take everyone's problems on your shoulder, who will help you? So tell me what's on your mind, that's what… that's what lovers are for."

France closed his eyes, sighing. He could feel England stroking his hair soothingly, and finally the tension slipped out of his muscles.

"Have I ever told you about Jeanne d'Arc?"

England's movements faltered for a short moment before he continued stroking as if nothing happened.

"Well I was there when she was still alive, but I don't think you've ever talked about her to me after that. Not, not her personally I mean, only the things she has done for you and the history she made."

"Ah, oui. She did so much for me. Yet I could do nothing for her in return. She didn't want me to. She- she knew who I was. What I was."

"You told her?"

"I didn't have to tell her. She just… knew."

Another melancholic sigh.

"Jeanne. Mon Jeanne. The only human I have ever truly loved. Yet… not like I love you."

France re-opened his eyes, locking them with England's. Their gazes spoke more than his words did.

"She was my child, but she was also my equal. With her, I did not feel like a nation. So painfully human, making her death all the worse. Sometimes I wish you'd have met her under different circumstances. I am sure you would have loved her. Or perhaps not, seeing how long it took you to love me."

England gave him a slight tick against his cheek, but didn't speak. His eyes were practically overflowing with emotion.

He understood exactly what emotion France spoke of. He had felt it too, so very often. Yet they always left him, made him regret feeling, made him lock up and hide how hurt and broken he truly was. Only France knew the real him.

"When you visit her this year… Can I come with?"

France stilled. He wasn't aware England knew of his habit to visit his children's graves and memorials. It made him fill with something wonderful, pride and happiness and more.

"I would love that, mon amour," he whispered, closing his eyes when England bent over to press a chaste kiss against his lips.

Being a big brother was nice, very nice.

But being cared for was even nicer sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words:  
> Je sais: I know


	17. Fifty Shades of Parenthood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the states!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to meet the states! Now, know that I am not American, so I purely base myself on what I could find on the internet and what other people have told me. I do not wish to insult anyone with stereotypes, if that should have happened somewhere.

Alfred was wandering seemingly aimlessly through the forest. This young nation was on a mission, however. A mission of the utmost importance.

Ever since becoming the United States of America, a nagging feeling had grown at the back of his head. Like he wasn’t alone here, like there was someone else out there, roaming the vast lands of his new country. Which was silly; his closest neighbours where many miles away and he knew there weren’t any other countries around here. Yet this one didn’t feel exactly like a country. Foreign, yet all too familiar.

Something rustled in the bushes to his left. The teenage nation jerked to a halt, grabbing the gun he always carried around when going away for a while. Better safe than sorry.

Someone appeared from the bushes. Someone who looked strikingly like…

“Huh? Who are you?” she asked.

It was a girl. A young, dark-haired girl. She had freckles on her sun-tanned skin, a funny little sprig of hair that stood up, and eyes that weren’t exactly the colour of the ocean, but also not entirely the colour of the sky.

“Who am I?” Alfred laughed, perplexed to be met with someone who looked so like him. Those eyes, the vibe she gave off, there was even a cowlick! If he didn’t know any better, Alfred would say this girl was his little sister or daughter or something. “I could be asking you the same thing, you know. You’re more or less on my land.”

“On your-“

Her eyes grew large, mouth forming a perfect little “oh.” The girl then walked forward without further ado, practically shoving her hand into his face.

“Hello mister America! My name’s Delaware, I’m the personification of this state!” she said carefully, eyes taking in his appearance as if sizing him up.

Now it was Alfred’s turn to be bedazzled.

“Delaware? As in the state, my state? Wait wait wait, I didn’t know states could get personifications too! Arthur never told me-“

He instantly cut himself off once he noticed who he’d been talking about. Arthur was something of the past. He didn’t need Arthur anymore. Or England, the British Empire. No more Arthur to tie his shoelaces now.

“Uhu,” she said, still holding out her hand. “I can’t be who I’m not now can I?”

He actually laughed at that, finally taking the outstretched hand and giving it a firm shake – perhaps even a little too firm, as the child seemed to lose her balance for a moment before regaining her footing.

And that is how Alfred met his first state, the first of what would later be fifty.

* * *

Russia stared in awe at the fifty pairs of eyes staring right back at him, most having expecting smiles upon their faces.

“Okay big guy, allow me to officially introduce you to my kids!” America beamed, grin reaching full capacity as he hopped up and down on the spot. He’d waited a long time for this day.

Russia smiled a bit awkwardly and waved. Couldn’t they stop staring? It was making him rather uncomfortable.

The first and possibly eldest came forth, shaking his hand before wrapping him into a swift and unexpected hug.

“Hello, I’m Delaware! But you can call me Nicole.”

This introduction seemed to be some sort of que, as suddenly everyone was crowding the tall nation to introduce themselves. America stepped back to make room, but whistled to draw the attention to himself.

“All righty then, now that everyone’s here, I’ll introduce you guys.”

Then he took in an enormous breath, and started rattling off the names of each and every single one of his states. That day, Russia met:

Montgomery Alabama Jones, who sighed wistfully when everyone started singing a familiar song named after him.

Ava Arizona Jones, a vibrant young girl who reminded him of fire and the sun. She instantly showed off her pet gila monster and wanted Russia to hold it for a while, but was chased away by the next state in line.

Shirley California Jones, a teen with a healthy tan and a face on which freckles had practically exploded. She offered Russia a bottle of wine, complaining about how she was legally too young to drink it and how her dad was really too strict with those regulations, to which America answered that it wasn’t up to him to decide that. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and a wink before the next state came up.

William Colorado Jones, who loved snowboarding and x-treme sports, but for some reason giggled just a tad too loudly when giving Russia a tight hug.

Olivia Florida Jones was a relaxed girl with a love of seafood and an understandable hatred for bad weather. She complained about how she’d wanted to bring over an alligator to show to their father’s new boyfriend, but that she probably wouldn’t have gotten it past security.

Neema Hawaii Alana-Jones was by far one of the eldest, in human age about as old as America himself. Being a former British colony, she had retained a no-nonsense attitude that shone through her easy grin. This also made her refuse to call America her father, although there appeared to be no hard feelings between her and the sunny blond. She spoke of her love for surfing, folklore and dancing, plus her annoyance with tourists, telling Russia that if he ever wanted to visit she knew some nice places where they wouldn’t bother him as much.

Angel Texas Martinez-Jones was another case on its own. Just like Nikolai used to be a part of Russia, Angel used to be a part of Mexico. He looked like a cowboy straight out of the films; at least, Russia had only ever seen America in such a strange getup. But it quite fit the young man, with his distinct accent and the gun visible in his belt- it reminded him of America from a while ago, the nation wouldn’t leave his house without a weapon then either…

Ian Idaho Jones gave him a bag of potatoes for some reason.

Aiden Indiana Jones, who oozed physical pain when everyone jokingly referred to him as the ‘true’ Indiana Jones. “Why did you have to call him that dad, why?” “I didn’t make that movie, talk to Spielberg!”

Dorothy Kansas Jones looked really sour. Not because that was a character trait of hers, but because no one even remembered her real name after they’d started calling her Dorothy after The Wizard Of Oz came out. “You sure you’re not a part of this?” “I swear, it’s the producers!”

Frederick Kentucky Jones, who laughed whole-heartedly as the others tried to give him something from KFC.

Lou Louisiana Jones, who… Frankly, Russia was afraid to ask them if they were a man or a woman, thinking it rude to ask such questions. Everyone else seemed to be used to their gender-ambiguous appearance (and name), so he decided to just follow their lead and greet Lou just the same. He ended up getting an animal skull and some homemade shrimp stew in return. How nice of them.

Margaret Maine Jones gave him a signed copy of a Steven King story right off the bat, telling Russia she had a whole bunch of those at home and gave them to anyone she met – which wasn’t a lot of people, seeing as she was a state, not a human, nor a nation. Before Russia could start pitying her, the next state was already pulling at his sleeve.

Diana Michigan Jones came up to him dressed in clothes that seemed much too warm for this time of the year, only telling him that “you never know when the weather might change.”

There was also Samuel Minnesota Jones, Joshua Mississippi, John Arkansas, Sophia Maryland, Norman Iowa, Robin Connecticut, Emily Georgia, Madison Montana, Virgil Missouri.

Warren Nebraska Jones spoke about his corn fields, Harry Nevada complained about how he’d almost gotten into a fight with the micro-nation Molossia just last week, Sarah New Hampshire grumbled about the taxes.

Gabriella New Mexico Jones spoke of conspiracy theories and UFOs, Emma and Grace as the personifications of North-and South-Carolina almost got into a I’m-better-than-you fight, Doris Ohio laughed about how some people were absolutely sure she was located near California.

There was Noah Oklahoma Jones, Tommy Pennsylvania Jones, Anna South Dakota Jones, Elijah Tennessee Jones, Joanna West Virginia Jones.

Mia Rhode Island Jones proclaimed herself to be the smallest but best state. Conwell Utah Jones spoke of ghost states. Wyatt Vermont Jones talked about his love for skiing.

Ginny Virginia Jones was a hopeless romantic. Aida Washington Jones a workaholic. Gavin Wisconsin Jones liked cheese, or something… Ella Wyoming Jones called herself the State of Love, for reasons unknown to Russia.

At the end of the line stood Nikolai and Lincoln, both of whom he’d already met. One of whom he’d known when he was still a toddler. But Kolya had grown a lot since then; well, not in size. Russia looked fondly at those lovely icy blue eyes, almost whitish grey at the outer edges but dark blue around the pupils, with only the vaguest hint of lavender flowing through it all. His hair was platinum blond with a bluish shine to it in certain lights, standing up at the front but curling around his ears, just like it did with Russia’s own hair. The only thing Kolya lacked was size. But that would never better- little Nikolai had a disorder that limited his growth processes. Despite the state being far older than his human age would make him out to be, he still looked like a child due to his short stature. Nearly reaching over Russia’s waste, he was forever to be the only true Little One.

This however, did not make his hug any less fierce when those arms finally swung around his chest, the boy having to stand on his tip-toes to even reach Russia’s shoulders.

“Spasibo za vnimaniye,” he whispered, using his true mother tongue to convey his feelings.

Russia smiled and returned the hug.

“You are welcome, dorogoy.”

The short moment of peace was quickly disturbed by their host, but Russia didn’t mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now you’ve met all of the fifty states! I’m definitely going to write another chapter for Alaska, but if there’s a specific state you’d like to see more about, please leave a review or PM me! I didn’t give them all a full introduction since I figured it’d be a bit tedious to read that about fifty states, so please do let me know if there’s any state you’d like to see more of.
> 
> Words:  
> Spasibo za vnimaniye: Thanks for coming


	18. The Great Search

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Gilbird goes missing, Prussia turns to Russia for help.

Russia was humming along with the song that played on his radio, lightly swaying his hips from side to side. The apron he was wearing had some splatters of dough on it from the Napoleon cake currently baking away in his oven. Not because he expected any guests, but sometimes it as nice treating oneself to something sweet. Not many nations knew this, but Russia had quite a taste for sweet delicacies and snacks.

The song came to an end just as the oven pinged indicating his dessert was finished. The ashen blond neatly put on his yellow oven mitts and opened up, sniffing contently when heavenly scents came pouring out.

Russia didn’t look up from the task at hand when someone began frantically ringing the doorbell. He also didn’t look up when a loud crashing noise permeated the air, him pulling out his cake and putting it on a plate to cool down. And he definitely didn’t look when someone came running and finally ended with a screeching halt in the middle of his kitchen.

“Braginsky, I need your help!” Prussia panted, bent double from all the running he had done today.

Russia pulled off his mitts, closing the door of the oven. A new song began playing, one with a very catchy tune. How nice.

“But have you seen her? She simply has to be here, Francis told me he saw her flying over the border-“

As Prussia began rambling on about nonsensical matters, Russia leisurely sauntered over to one of his cabinets. Finding this new song equally as cheerful as the previous one, he began humming again. He even sung a bit under his breath while he pulled something out of the cabinet.

“It’s been over a day, she never leaves for that long!” Prussia wheezed, waving his arms around and not taking notice of the person he was visiting.

Hence the reason he also didn’t notice the skillet until it made contact with the back of his head. Russia let out the final notes of the song as Prussia fell unconscious on his recently waxed tiles.

“It is rude to barge into people’s houses, da?” he giggled eerily, before once more returning his attention to the sweet treat beckoning for him to come closer.

* * *

“Did you really have to knock me out?” Prussia sulked, holding the ice bag firmly against the bulge on the back of his head. He was splayed out across Russia’s couch, feet kicking in the air while he munched away on a piece of cake which Russia had warmly offered him – he knew how to be a good host much better than his Prussian friend knew how to play the guest.

“Of course it was necessary,” the Russian chirruped, taking a sip of his tea before continuing, “I do not take kindly to people barging into my house uninvited.”

Prussia threw down the ice bag, fuming.

“Well it isn’t like I came here without a good reason, you Arschloch!”

“And what might that be?” Russia inquired, smiling sweetly yet that menacing aura of his rising at the rude behaviour of his companion.

“I lost her, and Francis said he saw her flying in your direction.”

“Lost who, Prussiya?”

Prussia shuddered for a second, the way Russia pronounced his name bringing back memories of post-World War II events.

“Gilbird of course! My birdie! She suddenly disappeared, and I’ve been looking all over Europe to find her!”

Russia smirked into his cup. “Only you would have time for such a quest. Has it not occurred to you she might have died? You have had that chick for how long now?”

In an instant Prussia was up and about, coming to stand right in front of Russia’s chair with a murderous expression.

“You don’t say stuff like that, Russland! Gilbird is the most awesome little bird this world knows, she won’t die until I do! We made a pact, she promised that to me.”

He said it with a fierce expression and gloating smirk, yet his eyes held a certain fearful doubt. Gilbird was one of his oldest friends, and he wasn’t just going to give up on her.

Russia gave only a light correction tap to punish Prussia for trying to intimidate him (please, as if anyone could intimidate him- well, except perhaps for his sister). He rose from his seat, finished his tea and put both his cup and plate away.

“Fine then comrade, we shall go look for your bird.”

“Wh- huh? You’re actually helping me?” Prussia asked, dumbfounded.

Russia smiled at him while putting on a heavy winter coat.

“Of course. I always help comrades who come to my aide. Was it not I who took care of you when you were no longer a country?”

A feeling of dread washed over the red-eyed nation when Russia began whistling.

“Hey, Braginsky, you are not asking for anything in return right?”

Russia smiled one final time before opening the front door, letting in a gush of cold.

“Of course I am~”

“Figures,” Prussia sighed, trudging after the tall nation as they ventured out.

* * *

“I can’t feel my toes!” Prussia grumbled when they came back inside. They had been walking around for hours upon hours, Russia instinctively finding his way through the snow and woods while Prussia had to put in an extra effort to keep up to him. He did vaguely remember some paths from back when he too lived here, but Russia seemed to get a certain pleasure from seeing him suffer.

They had traversed the entirety of Russia in a single day, avoiding the cities so as not having to keep up appearances. Not on foot, of course. But nations had a special ability to sense each and every single one of their inhabitants, plus the foreigners currently present in their country. This sense was a little less strong with animals, but since Prussia and Gilbird were so entwined, the bird would give off a slightly more familiar vibe.

They hadn’t found her. Wherever Gilbird was, she wasn’t in Russia.

“Stop complaining, Prussiya,” Russia chuckled. “It was a nice walk through the snow, good for your health. You seem to have gained some weight ever since you started dating Matvey.”

Prussia sighed in an exaggerated manner while he took off his wet boots.

“I really don’t get how Alfred can be dating you. The kid had so much potential, and then he picks the craziest nation of all as his boyfriend.”

“And I do not see how a sweet nation like Canada can date a swine like you,” Russia countered. He giggled when the other glared at him. Oh, how fun it was to tease Germany’s big brother!

“Birdie’s dating me because he has good taste, unlike his brother apparently. Besides, he’s far less sweet at night.”

Russia stilled, a slight blush appearing as he contemplated that thought. Canada and Prussia having… Oh dear, now that was not what he wanted to think about.  As far as Russia was concerned, his Canadian friend was an innocent young flower with a killer instinct for hockey and sarcastic comments that often went unnoticed by those around him. But he did _not_ want to think about Canada and Prussia… together.

“Don’t look like that. What, you seriously think all we do together is bake pancakes and sing sappy love songs? What, you and Alfred have sex too right?”

Russia’s hands found his scarf, nervously pulling and twisting.

“…Since your bird is not here, you might as well leave, da?”

Prussia immediately ceased his teasing, remembering the true reason for his presence.

“Oh come on! I can’t find her on my own, I’m just one guy! You have to help me!”

“I do not have to do anything at all. You asked for my help searching her here, we did not find your bird. I cannot help you.”

Prussia gritted his teeth, then almost spat the words out. “Fine! Would you _please_ help me? I’d be very… _thankful_.”

Russia became a smiling bastard once more, petting Prussia a bit too harshly on his head.

“Ah, but if you insist! My Prussiya, I had never expected you to say those words to me.”

Prussia was tearing his hair out by the time they reached the other’s office. A quick skype call to Canada would assure the absence of Gilbird on the American continent.

Gilbird wasn’t in Canada. Nor was she in the states. Not in Germany, Scandinavia, the Asian nations hadn’t seen her, she certainly hadn’t somehow travelled to Australia. They called Spain, Austria, Hungary, Poland – even though he hung up as soon as he saw who was calling him. The Baltics didn’t know, nor did Russia’s sisters.

No bird.

Somewhere along the day, and later the night, Russia’s teasing had switched off. He was in a much more professional mode now, whacking his brain with possible places the bird could be. It was such a tiny thing, so it couldn’t have gone that far – it certainly couldn’t have disappeared from the surface of the earth – but no one in the neighbourhood had caught sight of little Gilbird.

The hours grew longer and longer, until they stretched into days.

Prussia was a wreck after a week of searching. And Russia couldn’t help but pity him.

True, their relationship wasn’t always that stable. The insults and teasing, constant reminders of past occurrences, Prussia claiming he was allergic to Russia, Russia seeing the fun in irritating the other.

But he knew very well how it felt to lose someone dear to you.

Russia found the albino out on his porch, staring at the full moon. He sat down beside him, offering a glass of vodka.

“I’m not in the mood to drink,” Prussia shrugged it off.

“It will make you feel better. Warm, inside.”

Prussia took the glass after all. He tried to down it in one go, but choked and ended up coughing and blubbering.

“Vodka is not beer. Do not chug it.”

“I know that!” Prussia snarled, slapping the other’s hand away when he tried to pat his back.

Russia rolled his eyes, but didn’t dig further into the matter. They simply sat there, side by side, sipping their drink and staring at the white clouds their breath created.

“I still needed to thank you. You know, for that one time. When you and Francis…”

“Don’t mention it,” Prussia mumbled.

More silence. Prussia opened his mouth to say something else, but was interrupted by his cell going over.

“Ja, what do you want?” he sighed into his phone. Needless to say, the albino wasn’t very keen on chitchat right now.

“Prussie, terrific news!” came the voice of France. “I have found your bird!”

Prussia was up in an instant, the phone clenched tightly in his hand.

“What? Where?”

“I found her in my house just a moment ago, and she-“

Prussia hung up before the Frenchman could finish his sentence.

“I’m going to France right away!”

He was about to run off towards the airport when something grabbed him by the collar.

“I am coming with you,” Russia said.”

“What??? Why?”

“I am coming with you,” Russia simply repeated.

Prussia wanted to counter, but shook his head instead.

“Never mind. Let’s go!”

* * *

Three nations stared in awe as Gilbird and Pierre sat cuddled against each other, contently cooing and chirping. Finally, Gilbird was found.

“Ah, this is precious,” France swooned.

“They are cute,” Russia confirmed.

“What- what are they doing?” Prussia asked, suspiciously eyeing the snuggling birds.

“It is l’amour!” France cheered.

Prussia still looked like he didn’t get it, so Russia leant in and whispered the solution in his ear.

“They are going to make little ones.”

Prussia gasped loudly, eyes nearly bulging out.

“Oh no, that is not happening! My Gilbird is not starting a family with anyone! She’s just a little chick, she-“

“But it is nature, mon ami!”

“You are not going to stop them, that would be mean towards your friend,” Russia reminded him.

For a moment Prussia was torn, but then Gilbird noticed his presence. She chirruped happily and flew up to her owner’s shoulder. Tweeting excitedly, she fluffed her feathers and made a comfortable nest in his whitish hair.

“Oh my, it seems I was mistaken! Gilbird prefers you, not my Pierre!”

Prussia looked up. “Is that true, Vögelchen?”

Gilbird chirruped once more. Prussia’s eyes were a little wetter when he looked down again, a huge grin plastered permanently on his face. Gilbird was back, and she was going to stay.

“Well, I must take my leave then,” Russia interrupted the beautiful moment. He said his goodbyes to France, but when he turned towards Prussia he was surprised by an amicable punch on the shoulder – at least he hoped it was that, otherwise he would have to learn the other a lesson.

“Danke. For helping me find my bird.”

Maybe Prussia wasn’t so bad after all.

Russia smiled and dropped a heavy hand on the other’s shoulder.

“You are welcome,” he said warmly, not letting the chance go by to make his words sound a little ominous.

Bad or not, he and Prussia had a difficult relationship to uphold. And as Prussia cackled and punched his arm again, much harder this time, he knew he made the right decision.


	19. Kiss With A Fist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things never change, that much is clear for France and England.

“They haven’t changed much since they got into a relationship, have they?” Spain wistfully commented.

He and both Italies looked at the two nations currently making amok at the other side of the room. Blue and green eyes stubbornly locked in combat, as they spat and snarled their opinions. It was a surprise the two hadn’t gone for each other’s throat yet.

“I think it’s sad,” Veneziano sighed, “I really hoped they would stopped fighting once they became a couple. Big brother Francis used to talk about his love for Arthur all the time, so I know he loves him. But to treat your lover like that…” He caught sight of Germany and waved cheerfully.

Romano stared at him. “What’s all that bullshit? Love isn’t supposed to contain your fighting spirit! If anything, it should make you even more fierce!”

“Is that why you always pick fights with me?” Spain cooed, making the other blush and roll his eyes.

“All I’m trying to say is that, did you really expect those two to stop fighting just because they declared their undying love for one another? Fighting is in their blood. If they were Italian I would have called it Southern temperament.” After that he apparently felt like he had spoken enough, crossing his arms with a small huff.

“I still think it’s a pity…” his brother repeated, but then they heard Germany’s voice roaring through the conference hall.

“All right, that does it! You two, out!”

France and England looked up with quirked eyebrows, their hands stopping in their motions of grabbing hair and collars.

“If you’re only going to keep fighting like this, I want you out of the meeting! That way the rest of us can at least try to get to an agreement. (Not that I think that is going to happen, but it’ll be a little more likely without your constant disrupting.)”

The two blond nations struggled and voiced their complaints as Germany worked them out the door. With one final shove they were out, the pathway to the meeting room closed behind them.

Inside, Spain sighed once more.

“There they go again.”

“Serves them right, idiots.”

“Maybe I can make them some nice sweets later, that always cheers people up!”

More sighs.

Outside, France and England looked absolutely dumbfounded.

“Did we- did we just get kicked out of the meeting?” England asked, blinking a bit owlishly.

“I think we did.”

A moment of silence as both nations contemplated that thought. Then, England let his eyes slide sideways to sneak a glance at his lover.

“Would you care for a cup of tea?”

France smiled, dusting off his jacket.

“I would love that, mon amour.”

And then they began walking towards the exit of the building, arms hooked together, faces covered with bruises and hair and clothing dishevelled.


End file.
